


Questionable Artistry

by spirrum



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, add a dash of mutual pining, and voilà, gratuitous wood-related innuendos aplenty, in which Lavellan owns a woodworking shop, with Bull and Blackwall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirrum/pseuds/spirrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hers is a craft that leaves marks, and he just handed her his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me at 3am after watching a tutorial on wood carving.

The little shop looks misplaced, sitting three paces down a dingy alley and on the ground floor of a large, imposing brick building that looks one murder away from a local tourist attraction. He spends a moment on the steps, considering the looming structure, and the at-odds little business that looks like it might have sprouted from the side of the building of its own accord. Three stone steps lead to a wooden door, the garish purple paint chipped and fading, and above which hangs a cheerful, swinging sign, the finely carved words declaring the shop’s name,  _Straight off the Chopping Block._

He checks Cassandra’s message again, just to be sure he hasn’t misread the address. And finding it correct, Solas belatedly decides to forgo his better judgement. After all, not all things are the way they appear, though it takes some repeating the phrase before he finally makes to open the door.

The bell chimes, though the pleasant sound is spoiled somewhat by the ear-splitting  _shriek_  of the door’s hinges, but despite having likely drawn the attention of every living soul two neighbourhoods down, the front room is empty when he enters.

It’s not a big room, though going by the shop’s ramshackle façade that’s no surprise, and he’s relieved to find that he’s at least found the right business, by the wood carvings displayed on the walls. A large grandfather clock looms to his right, along with an assortment of engravings – birds, animals, and heraldry, though the grandest by far is an enormous tree, carved into the wall behind the counter, its curling branches taking up the entire stretch of wall, all the way towards the ceiling. Individual leaves have been added, a meticulous and massive project, and by the look of it, an unfinished one.

For a brief moment, the sight steals his breath, before he locates his voice enough to call, “Hello?”

Behind the counter, just beyond the reach of the tree’s longest branches, there’s a door leading to a back room, through which a large, apron-clad Qunari ducks, fixing his one-eyed gaze on Solas. He looks too tall for the shop, but moves like he isn’t, and with a comfortable ease that suggests he’s the owner.

“What can I do for you?” he asks, in the way that implies there is more than one answer, for those who know the right questions. But Solas is only there for business. The right sort, hopefully.

He lifts the wrapped package he’s brought, giving no indication of its contents. “You do engravings?”

He receives a nod, before the Qunari turns back, to shout to someone beyond the door, “Boss, there’s a guy for you!” A wicked smile makes his lone eye curve. “He’s got wood.”

The raise of a brow does little to wipe the grin off his face, however. Solas is beginning to doubt Cassandra’s appraisal, and spares an idle thought to the fact that she might have been thinking of another woodworking shop entirely.

“Because that joke  _never_  gets old,” comes a voice then, a laughing sigh from beyond the doorway, before an elven woman steps into the front room, wiping her hands on a rag. There are wood shavings in her red hair and laughter in her eyes, and the smile that greets him is bright and lively. “ _Andaran atish’an,_ and please excuse him, he only has one joke, and you gave him an opening,  _don’t_ –” she turns to her colleague, a warning look on her face that’s partially ruined by the dimpled smile she can’t quite stifle, “Even go there, Bull, although I know I walked right into that one.”

He laughs, a great, booming sound that carries, and she’s trying very hard not to, when she turns back to Solas. “How can I help you?”

He hesitates only a moment before he holds out the parcel, placing it on the counter before her. “I was looking to have this engraved.”

Reaching for the cloth, her hands bump against his, slender and calloused with cuts and still-healing scars peppering her fingers. It draws his eyes, an involuntary and strangely inescapable urge.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Hazardous workplace,” she chuckles, almost nervously, but she doesn’t pull back her hands. Lifting away the wrapping, her mouth shapes an “O” at the sight of the book, fingers skirting reverently over the wooden cover.

“It is for a friend,” Solas says, although – not entirely sure why. He hadn’t needed to elaborate.

She nods, but seems almost too engrossed in the sight of it to take in the words. “What kind of engraving were you thinking? Just a title, or an illustration?”

“The front cover illustrated,” he explains. “An owl, perhaps.” The words  _trees and leaves_  sit, a laden weight on his tongue, but he doesn’t speak them, feeling the story where it rests, heavy on the naked boughs just beyond her shoulder. “Symbols of wisdom,” he adds, and then, though he doesn’t know why he’s still talking, “The book is hers, just recently published. I wished to have it commemorated, somehow.”

She’s nodding along to the words, and pulling out a ledger from beneath the counter, stuffed thick with papers and notes and sketches, she begins to jot down the details.

An urge strikes. He takes it. “I take it you are the owner?” The man, Bull, had named her so.

“Ellana,” she greets, not lifting her eyes from the page. She’s made a small doodle – a barn owl, and crossed it out. Jotted a single word beneath:  _Tyto?_   “And yeah. It’s just the three of us, though. It’s not a big business. Bull does special requests, and then there’s Thom in the back. He makes chairs, mostly. Cribs. Tables.” A rising sun behind the owl, and another note:  _symbols of wisdom_.  _Google later_.

He lifts his gaze to the tree behind her. Takes a chance. “Your work?”

She looks up, and –  seeing the path of his gaze – a twinge of pride sits in her smile, but something else, too – something that looks a great deal like grief. She doesn’t turn to look at it. “An old project. I…it never seems to be a good time for it.”

“It is beautiful.”

The compliment makes her flush, but she doesn’t drop her gaze from his. “Thank you.” She’s fiddling with the pen. “Ah – anything else?”

Solas considers the question; the book’s cover on the counter. Though woodworking is not his craft, he sees the potential in the smooth, unmarred wood – images shaping, melding and unfurling behind his eyes. He could have easily given her a sketch of his own, fully detailed.

But, “I would leave the rest to you,” he says instead.

Her eyes go wide. It’s obvious that she’d expected something else. “Really?” Her brows knit together. “It sounds like a personal gift. I wouldn’t want to take too many liberties. The more details you can give me, the better.” It’s a precaution taken, he knows, and he wonders how many customers she’s had come back with complaints for it to put the worried crease between her brows. But despite it, it’s not worry that trembles in her eyes, but another kind of expectation. Intrigue. Anticipation. Her fingers twitch around the pen in her grip.

He spares another glance to the tree – traces the intricate detailing in the leaves. Days of work. Long nights, no doubt. Early mornings. There’s a single-minded drive he recognizes in the way the leaves are shaped, expertly carved to create the illusion of shadows; the thin, running lines through the tree’s trunk, to mark its imagined age.

He meets her eyes with a smile. “I trust you.”

The words catch her off guard, but her recovery is admirable. And she seems to seize him up then, as he had the tree – perhaps to consider whether or not he’ll come charging into her shop one day, door swinging off its hinges and insults spitting, to demand his money back.

He wonders what she gleans from her thorough study.

A breath, then, “Alright. Shameless artistic liberty it is.” She smiles. “Anything in writing you want added? A title?” She hesitates a moment. “A name? ‘In memory of’, ‘dedicated to’ etcetera?”

Solas shakes his head. “The illustration is enough.”

She pulls out a card to write. “Here’s the estimated price, and my phone number, just in case you do want to add something.” She hands it over, promptly, almost, as though he might change his mind based on her show of professionalism. Or lack thereof. “I’ll have it ready in two weeks.” Then she pushes the ledger towards him. “You might want to add your information, in case I’m not in when you come to pick it up. Of course, I don’t think they’d mistake you for anyone else.”

He doesn’t know what prompts it, but as he accepts the pen, Solas asks, good humour winking in the near-teasing words, “Am I so memorable?”

She clears her throat with a laugh. “Ah, that’s not – I mean–” She presses her lips together to avoid smiling, but it’s not much help. “We don’t get a lot of guys like you in here, is what I mean.”

He can’t help himself now. “Like me?”

She doesn’t back down under pressure, he’ll give her that. She nods to his person. “Pressed pants, Oxfords. Cufflinks?”

“Should I be wearing overalls?”

Tongue-in-cheek, she shrugs. “You’d blend in better. But having met you now, I don’t think I could picture it if I tried.”

Solas laughs, a low chuckle. “Perhaps I will surprise you.”

Her smile is pleasant, making her eyes curve. Gone is the brusque professionalism, and he finds himself strangely glad of it. “I’d like to see that.”

There is a pause. One heartbeat. Two. The air seems thick, and when he swallows, it’s with effort. Behind the counter, Ellana fidgets, as though sensing the same change.

“Well–”

“I–”

She laughs, and Solas feels – something. “Two weeks,” he says then.

A nod, and she’s still smiling. “Two weeks.”

He turns to leave, suddenly aware of the click of his shoes against the floor; the polished leather and the door’s chipped paint, and the weight of her eyes on his back. The bell chimes, announcing his departure, and the door protests his intention with exuberance, but he feels no lingering annoyance now as he makes to descend the steps.

And as he leaves, the noise of the busy street drawing him in and away from the strange little shop, he offers one last look to the purple door, and wonders at the change that’s taken place, in the minutes since he’d stepped through it.

 _Two weeks_.

He tastes the words, and finds in them, a smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Solas, huh?”

The observation makes her jump, dropping her pen in surprise. “ _Creators,_  Bull.” You’d think someone his size would make more noise when moving about, but then she’s been told she has a penchant for zoning out.

From over her shoulder, Bull grins. “Sorry, Boss.”

“No you’re not.” And before he can ask again she’s shut the ledger, though the name still remains, as though carved into her memory, a fine cursive script that almost puts her own hand to shame.

 _Solas_. Just that, and nothing else. Not even a phone number or an email address.

“Weird guy,” Bull echoes her thoughts. “Rich?”

Ellana shrugs. “Who knows?” By the clothes alone, though, she’d make guess at  _oh, yes_. She wonders how he came to hear of her shop in the first place. They’re not exactly renowned – she’s making good sales, but mostly through Etsy, as very few customers actually come down to the shop itself. She’d thought the front door alone would turn someone like him away. Maybe he’s been misled, and thought their locale was simply part of a grungy image?

She looks at the book he’d left, an empty canvas of smooth, dark wood at her fingertips. An expensive purchase, but from the look of him, that’s no surprise. She’d been so tempted to ask why he’d brought it to her, when there’s likely other places in the city with equally skilled wood carvers, in shops that don’t look like they’re part of a horror movie set.

And he’d said he trusted her.

She doesn’t look at the  _vhenadahl_ , despite the temptation that creeps like an itch along her neck. But she doesn’t have to look at it to know it – she sees it every damn day; knows every leaf and branch, and every cut and scar, every callous it’s left her with.

Putting the ledger away, she stalks into the workshop, eager to get out from under the weight of its presence; the branches hanging low with imaginary blame.

She finds Bull by his workbench, going over his tools. Hoping to change the subject from strange, finely clad customers, she asks, “What are you working on?”

If he suspects an interest beyond his craft, he doesn’t let on, nodding instead to the block of wood laid out before him with a grin. “Another chess board, custom made. Order came in earlier. Some guy wanted hand carved pieces.” He holds up a small square of wood, his grin turning fierce, the way it does with the promise of a truly ridiculous bill. “Dwarves and Darkspawn.”

Ellana shakes her head. “Only you have the patience, Bull.”

“The cash helps,” he offers back drolly. Then, with a look that has nothing to do with how much money his new project is going to earn him, “So. Two weeks.”

She presses her lips together, and is contemplating just ignoring the insinuation, when another voice chimes in, “What happens in two weeks?” She turns her head to see Blackwall approaching, dark beard flecked white with sawdust.

Bull laughs. “Boss got doe-eyes for a customer. Gonna be back in two weeks.”

Dark brows raise, and polite intrigue gleams in the dark eyes beneath. Ellana groans. “Creators, Thom not  _you_ , too.”

Blackwall shrugs. “Been a while since the last one.” And it’s not meant as a slight, she knows, but oh, it still stings. How long before it stops? New cuts on her hands every day, but this is a scar that refuses to heal. “And it’s not the worst, having someone in your life,” he adds.

Her smile feels brittle. “You didn’t even see him. He was at least ten years my senior,” she says. Then with a pointed look at them both, “Practically an old man, and my life has quite enough of  _those_.” But her humour feels forced, and she marvels quietly at how quickly her good mood took a nosedive. But it’s not like she can deny Bull’s claim – she’d practically batted her lashes at the man.

“Wasn’t suggesting you marry the poor sod,” Blackwall amends then.

Bull snorts. “Says the one getting proposals for his rocking chairs. Didn’t you get an offer just last week? Some grieving widow moved to tears by your wood-handling skills?” His grin is quick, and sharp as the knife twirled between his fingers. “Bet she was thinking if you were good with  _that_  kind of wood, you–”

The rag hits him in the face before he can finish speaking, but he’s laughing as he pulls it off, tossing it back to Ellana. But she’s smiling now, even if it’s despite herself. “My own  _wood-handling skills_ aside,” she quips, “I don’t think a wood carving would be enough to seduce someone like that.”

Bull shrugs. He’s begun whittling one of the small pieces, though it’s too early to tell if it’s going to be a dwarf or a darkspawn. “Don’t sell yourself short, Boss. Those crazy details you add? Takes deft hands. And if that ain’t a selling point, guy’s gotta be nuts.”

Ellana sighs. “What are the odds that you’ll both be conspicuously absent two weeks from now?”

Bull laughs. “Not a chance!” Blackwall only smiles.

Shaking her head, she makes for the door. “I’m going to go grab lunch,” she calls over her shoulder. “If either of you have any last quips to make do it now, so I know not to bring you anything back!” There are no more jibes as she exits the workshop, but she can practically feelBull’s smile, and Blackwall’s laughter is a muted mirth that rings as loudly as the real thing.

The front room is empty, and she lingers by counter a moment as she passes, the branches of the  _vhenadahl_  seeming to reach towards her, eerily beckoning. Half-finished, it’s as much a living legacy as it is a mockery. She can’t bear to take it down, but at the same time, can’t make herself complete it. On the counter below sits the book, innocuous, but in its own way, a desperately tempting thing. She thinks of his hands, palms not rough-hewn but smooth, fingers long and elegant, holding the book like a sacred thing.A librarian, maybe? A writer?

She shakes off the thought, and the image of his smiling eyes, grey and clever, and his mouth, shaping the words  _I trust you._

“What is  _wrong_ with you?” she asks the empty room, voice shrill enough to make her wince, and before Bull has the chance to call from the workshop, nearly throws herself towards the door, hoping the familiar cacophony of bell-and-door-against-frame can drown out the persistent yet thrilling thought of two weeks, two weeks,  _two weeks–_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad you're enjoying this silly AU so far!

“So I told her,” Cassandra’s voice bounces back against the concrete walls of the stairwell, “If she did not like my methods, she could take her business elsewhere.”

Approaching the door at the top of the stairs, Solas doesn’t look back as he asks, “And how did she react?”

He doesn’t need to see her to know that she’s thrown her hands up. “ _Ugh_. Do not get me started.”

Turning the key in the lock, his low chuckle is lost below Cassandra’s continued grievance on behalf of her latest client, as they step inside the studio. The shafts of sunlight filtering in through the bank of windows on the far wall bathes the room in gold, sharpening the deep reds and yellows of the frescoes rising towards the high ceiling. His worktable sits, a lone island in the middle of the sparsely furnished space, overladen with paints and sketches.

“Is that your latest?” Cassandra asks, with a nod towards the rising stack of papers on the cluttered table.

Solas drops his keys in the key bowl. There’s a small pile of mail sitting beside it – Cole’s doing, no doubt. “It is.”

Her fingers twitch against her sides. Solas smiles, but quells his humour when she looks towards him, expression somewhere between gravely serious and barely-contained eagerness. “May I?”

Palm held open towards the stack of papers, the sweeping gesture is one of permission. “By all means.”

It’s a reprint of the Chant of Light, made to order from a Comte with very heavy pockets in Val Royeaux. Printed on an authentic wood-block printing press, the ink is dark and the lettering severe against the yellowing paper, the contrast made all the more stark with the addition of the illustrations along the pages – swirls of gold and  _fleurs-de-lis_ ; deep blue and purple flowers, and the stylised sun of the Chantry. Images of Andraste, on the Maker’s side and on the pyre. Vivid red-and-gold flames lapping against the page.

Cassandra handles the pages with care, deceptively rough fingers careful when turning them over, one by one. “For all your lack of faith,” she says, awe softening the words. “The illustrations are – truly remarkable.”

His smile is patient. “Faith is not a necessary component in art.”

She glances up, one brow raised, but she doesn’t argue the claim, though part of her wants to vocally disagree, he knows.

Disposing of his bag, Solas makes to check his messages. There’s one from his assistant – a ceaseless string of softly-spoken words that would be hard to decipher for one not familiar with his peculiar way of speaking. There’s another from Vivienne, about an art gallery opening and whether or not he has anything new to show, and two from Dorian, the first asking about the completion of his current project, and the second an addendum, reminding him once again that there’s money in blasphemy, and that putting his skills to a less-than-moral purpose than decorating the Chant is sure to ‘get him out of that filthy, dilapidated loft’.

Shaking his head, Solas lifts his gaze to Cassandra, to find her considering her wristwatch. “Plans?”

“I am meeting Leliana for coffee,” she says. Then, with a pointed look at him, “You could join us.”

His smile is rueful. “You always ask.”

“You always say no.”

“I do not drink coffee.”

“So you say.”

“You are persistent.”

A small smile. “I have been told.”

A pause follows, and he finds himself hesitating. His hours are spent mostly alone, or in the company of like-minded people – his assistant walks lightly; speaks softly, and Solas knows what to expect. Cassandra, too, requires little. The conversation flows easily, despite their radically differing viewpoints, and silence has never deterred her.

Cassandra’s closest circle of friends, however, are not the silent sort, and it’s been years since Solas has felt a thirst for the quick-paced, sharp-tongued banter that forgoes grammatical composition for the sake of speed.

But he finds himself thinking then, of a lively smile, and that breathy laugh. The desire that had kindled, to prolong the conversation – to spend another minute in her company. An urge he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Perhaps he would not be remiss, to work on his social skills.

“Alright,” he relents, at last.

Her surprise is evident; her stern face a map of emotions, easily read. “What changed your mind?”

His smile reveals nothing. “A sudden compulsion.”

A sharp brow quirks, amusement sitting in the press of her lips. “Do you have those?”

“Not everything I do is due thorough contemplation,” he counters. Then, with a flicker of good humour, “I have my moments.” He roots around in his pocket for his phone. “I will send a message to Cole.”

Cassandra grimaces. “That boy is – odd.”

“I will be the last to deny that,” Solas admits, fingers skipping lightly across the keypad.  _Will be out a few hours. Keys are under the doormat. Look for errors in the Canticle of Benedictions – it goes in the press on Friday._ “Regardless, his help is invaluable.”

He receives a message back almost instantly.  _The Outside is not quiet._   _The Quiet is good, but the Quiet can be too much._

Then another, this time in iambic pentameter. _There is still space for laughter in the loft._

And another right at its heels.  _The cats are hungry, but I will be there._

Solas pockets the phone, before turning to Cassandra waiting by the door. He doesn’t ask where they’re headed, having already made a guess. He’s been to the pub once, on Varric’s behest, to celebrate his newest book release. It had been a civilised affair, if a little too loud for his tastes.

“I forgot to ask,” Cassandra says then, as they turn the corner of his apartment complex. The air is crisp with autumn’s first chill, and he feels the sting against the tip of his ears. “How was the shop?”

Solas considers his words. So many ways to answers that, from ‘not what I expected’ to ‘you should see for yourself’, but, “Colourful,” he chooses at length, remembering the purple door. Her red hair with the wood shavings.

Cassandra nods. “I guessed as much. Cullen placed an order for a new chess board,” she says. “But through the online shop. Too busy to take the time to order one in person, I suppose.”

Solas spares an idle thought to whether or not Cullen would have braved the purple door, but keeps the musing to himself.

The  _Herald’s Rest_  is by no means a disreputable establishment, though he could hardly imagine Cassandra willingly convening in anything else. Sitting at the corner of one of the busier side-streets, it’s a popular haunt, though it’s too early in the day for it to be truly crowded – a small mercy, Solas finds, manoeuvring between the tables towards the back, where Varric and Leliana are seated. He’s not surprised to see the dwarf – a social magnet of sorts, he’s the kind of person others revolve around. A fascinating trait, if at times trying.

Making note of their approach, Varric’s greeting grin is a wide curve of companionable mirth. “Look who’s been persuaded out of his willing seclusion. Finally finished your last project, Chuckles? How many months did this one take you?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know where you find the patience.”

Solas takes a seat, finding an easy smile for the dwarf. “It is a lost art,” he says, the words familiar. Often spoken, perhaps, but the subject is a dear one, and poorly understood. “The time and effort is worth the result. You cannot find the same dedication in illustrations today.” Time and effort also require money, but though he’s usually paid an obscene amount of coin for a single volume of his work, commissions are rare. He wouldn’t have been able to live off it, though it’s more than the hobby Varric would sometimes make it out to be.

“See now, you say that,” Varric muses. “But did you see the newest cover of  _Hard in Hightown_? I don’t know about dedication, but I’d like to see those old monks of yours manage that kind of realism.”

“The art was meant to complement the scriptures, not dazzle and distract from poor writing.”

Varric barks a laugh. “I’d take offence, but I’m not claiming to be a master. Hell, I write paperbacks,” he declares. “So you can take your snobbery elsewhere.”

“I would not go so far as to call it  _snobbery_ –”

“Chuckles, you own a bloody printing press.”

“I think it is lovely,” Leliana intervenes calmly, smile partially hidden behind the rim of her cup. “Preserving an old skill, even with today’s technology. The old scriptures are something to behold. It is good that the tradition is not lost.”

“Thank you,” Solas says, pleased at the show of support.

Varric snorts. “Careful, Nightingale – once you get him started on how nice things used to be, there’s no shutting him up.”

“I do not  _always_  talk about the past.”

“You do,” Cassandra adds, but not unkindly. “Though in this company, you are not the one who talks the most.” She shoots Varric a pointed look, which the dwarf returns with a wink.

The barkeep comes over to take their order, and the conversation shifts – Varric has a story and the will to tell it, and Solas feels the relief of not being at the centre of attention like a weight lifted. Though more than capable of withstanding friendly jibes on his behalf, he has never found much pleasure at being at the centre of things – not like Varric does, relishing in the weight of their collective gazes.

His regret at agreeing to come along is a brief-lived thing, stilled by the friendly atmosphere. But though their laughter rises around him, his attention is fleeting; his thoughts elsewhere, behind a faded purple door, and at the roots of a half-finished tree. He barely touches his tea, mind too occupied with trying to remember the exact lilt of her voice, and the way her eyes had curved with pleasure, when he’d met her playful remarks with his own. He’d told Cassandra in jest that he had his moments of impulsiveness, but he feels the urge now, strange and compelling where it comes to take root. There’s a folded-up note with her phone number, burning a hole in his pocket, and he’s long since lost track of the conversation around him.

And for someone accustomed to the slow and patient passage of days; long hours ticking by without a thought, two measly weeks seem suddenly like a very long time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Three days into her new project, and Ellana comes down with the mother of all head colds.

It’s the weather that does it – those final, fitful weeks of autumn after the leaves have fallen, just before the first frost. Bouts of cold rain have made walking home from the shop a hazard, and now her nose won’t stop running and her entire head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Bull had threatened to physically carry her home, but had relented when she’d promised to go home early of her own volition, if she was given a few hours to work. Restlessness is a disease unto itself, and she can’t bear the thought of sitting home with her hands empty, knowing there’s work to be done.

Dorian breezes in some time around lunch, bringing two brown paper bags and a tirade so long, he’s talking even before he’s shut the door behind him. As the head librarian of the rare books department at the city’s university, there’s enough to complain about, and as usual she takes it in stride, though she couldn’t have dredged up the appetite to eat if she’d tried.

Halfway through explaining the ineptitude of one particular colleague – an undergrad (“an  _undergrad_! Do they even ask for resumes anymore?”) from Denerim with offensively greasy hands – he suddenly stops mid-sentence to ask, “Are you ill?”

The urge to wipe at her nose is hard to resist, but Ellana perseveres. “No.”

“You look ill.”

“And I should never expect flattery from you,” she counters, leaning her forehead on the table. It provides little relief, but at least the room stops spinning.

“What are you working on?” Dorian asks then.

 _The urge not to pass out right where I sit._ “Book illustration,” she manages, the words muffled against her crossed arms.

He hums. She hears the scrape of his chair against the floor, before one of the papers she’s leaning on is tugged out from under her elbow. “A considerable undertaking, by the details alone,” he remarks. “Though from the look of it you’ve barely started.”

“Don’t remind me,” she moans, lifting her head. “It’s supposed to be finished in little over a week, but I can barely hold my chisel. All I’ve done for the past three days is doodle.”  _And poorly._

He looks at the sketches laid out on the table, and the one in his hand. Then announces casually, “There’s snot on your doodle.”

“Don’t make me wipe it on  _you_ , next.”

He grins. “If you could actually lift your arms, I’d feel threatened. Alas, here we are.” His smile turns suddenly cheeky, long fingers foregoing the sketch to curl almost lazily around his styrofoam cup. “This wouldn’t be the order of the customer I hear has caught your eye, now would it?”

Ellana sighs.  _Damn it, Bull._  “He was–”

“Virile and Maker-blessed?”

“ _Charming_ ,” she finishes. “Creators, what does that even mean? Maker-blessed?”

He gives her a look from over the rim of his cup, and Ellana groans, cheeks flaming. “ _Dorian_.”  _That’s not a mental image I need right now!_

“Not too quick on the uptake today,” he observers.

“I’m  _sick_.”

“As is evident. I hope for your sake he’s not stopping by.”

 _Speaking of blessings._ “He’s not. And I’m not talking about him.” Nevermind the fact that he’s frequented her thoughts every day since he strode out of her shop in that graceful, loping gait.

When he looks ready to protest, Ellana charges on, “If you have to know, you can pester Bull for details later.” She hopes the look she offers is sufficiently pleading, though she’s not beyond grovelling, if that’s what it takes. “ _Please_.” Then, because if she can’t appeal to his kindness, perhaps his vanity will do the trick, “You were talking about work?”

Dorian sighs. “Fine.” Then, with a frown, “Where was I?”

“Mr. Greasy Hands McBachelor Degree was pawing all over your favourite manuscripts.”

“Ah! Yes. That mabari-bred tool. As I was saying–”

Ellana looks at the sketch sitting by her elbow – the owl with its wings spread. She’s never going to finish the book in time. The responsible part of her thinks she might make an effort to track him down – there can’t be that many people in the phone book named  _Solas_. If it’s even his real name, that is. But she could, realistically, go through the trouble.

Or, she could wait for him to stop by, and tell him in person. They’d have to reschedule. He’d have to come back again.

Despite her still-running nose and her appetite nowhere to be seen, her spirits are lifted by the thought, and when Dorian’s voice drags her back into another rant, this time on the personal insult that is the library’s computerized archives, Ellana finds the energy to offer the appropriate responses.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite having left nothing but his name, Solas returns, two weeks after first setting foot through her door, punctual almost to the hour.

Her head cold has long since released its grip, though her nose still feels a little stuffy. But she’s in a good mood, and when the bell chimes, followed by the expected  _screech_  of the door announcing a customer, she’s in the front room before he’s had the chance to close it behind him.

There’s a quip at the tip of her tongue – that she’d half-expected him to show up in overalls, but she swallows the urge, and the words, before she can speak them.

“Hello,” he says, with that easy calm she remembers, grey eyes crinkling at the corners. A dark green coat hangs on his lean form, impeccably pressed, and there’s a loose scarf wound around his neck.

She’s tempted to tuck her hair behind her ear, but she’s made sure she’s presentable – no wood shavings this time, and one of her prettier sweaters, one of soft grey wool, and without any holes.  _Visible ones, anyway_. Not too pretty, of course – her work hardly allows for finery, and she doesn’t want him to think she’d dressed up for him. Even if that’s exactly what she’s done.

 _You’re ridiculous, you do know that?_   And her smile is somewhere along those lines, too. “Hi.” Then, remembering why he’s there, “It’s not finished,” she blurts. “I know I said it would be, but then I got sick, and I spent a whole week in bed, and–”  _Creators, Ellana, stop talking._ “Is that – okay? Your friend, she – were you planning on giving it to her on a set date, or an actual date, or–?”

His brows lift. Imperceptibly, but she feels the implication like a slap, and Ellana realizes belatedly she’s stumbled headfirst across the line from professional curiosity into blatant prying.

 _Fenedhis lasa!_  “Ah, I mean – I’m not – she’s – that isn’t really my business.” A breathy laugh. “I’m sorry. For prying. And for not having your book ready when I said I would.”

But despite her inane rambling, Solas only chuckles. “No need to apologize. Art happens in its own time. You cannot force it.” He mentions nothing about her stepping out of line, and she’s desperately grateful, but there’s an understanding in the words that make her want to ask –  _what do you do? Where do you work?_

But those are questions better suited for a date, not a business transaction. “I would have contacted you earlier, but you didn’t leave a number,” she says instead, hoping to change the subject before she mentions the word  _date_  again.

He smiles. “I would have, but then I would have no reason to come here in person.”

Her cheeks warm. She’s sure they can feel the change in temperature all the way in the workshop, and she tries to keep from smiling too much. “Right. So – ah. One week. I think that should do it.” She hesitates a moment, before asking, “Would you like to leave your number now, just in case? You, ah, wouldn’t have to come all the way down here if there’s another delay.”

She doesn’t know what she expects him to say, but she can’t read his expression, or the smile that alights behind his eyes.

“I will take my chances,” Solas says calmly. Meaningfully. And she’s suddenly glad he’s turning towards the door, because it means he can’t see the expression on her own face, and know her feelings for what they are.

But he stops before he can open it, gloved hand resting on the door-handle, as if halted by indecision.

“If it is not too bold of me to ask,” he says then, glancing back towards her. “Would you perhaps like to go out for coffee sometime?”

She sucks in a breath. “Coffee?” She’s acutely aware that her voice sounds about a pitch too high. “I love coffee.”

Solas smiles – a sudden, fierce thing. It’s startlingly attractive. “I despise the stuff.”

She blinks. “Then why–?”

“I have gathered that it is a good place to start, when one wishes to cultivate a new friendship.”

She’s given up on stifling her stupid smile. “I might have an hour or two free tomorrow,” she manages, with an admirably even voice.

He nods. His own smile lingers, unreadable, and yet – “Then I will make sure to stop by.” And with a last glance, he makes to depart. The bell chimes, and her heart leaps, a lively jump in her chest.

When it swings closed, Ellana turns to find Bull and Blackwall in the doorway to the workshop.

“No offence, Boss,” Bull says. “But that was painful.”

Blackwall barks a laugh. “Like a public flogging.”

“Oh, shut up.”

But she’s smiling so widely, she couldn’t have made it sound spiteful if she’d wanted to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love goes out to all of you for your enthusiastic messages and hopes for this to continue <3

She’s been fidgeting all morning when he finally stops by around noon, intimidatingly well dressed and with that quiet humour in his eyes, and pointedly ignoring the two figures looming in the doorway to the workshop.

“Hello,” he says, and damn her for the entirely too telling smile it prompts. But despite the company to see her off, Solas looks unperturbed. “Is this a bad time?”

Ellana doesn’t dignify her blatantly prying co-workers with so much as a glance. “Not at all.” She’s trying very hard not to smooth out her sweater, aware that she’s exhausted the motion in the hours leading up to his arrival. If there are any wrinkles, they are of her own make. She’s tried to hit that magical pocket-between-universes that’s neither too casual nor too fancy – with some assistance from Dorian, and the promise that she would divulge more than ‘he’s handsome, alright? Give it a rest!’ To Ellana’s surprise, and for all that he’d revealed Solas’ existence in the first place, Bull has kept surprisingly tight-lipped about her mystery customer.

Coat in hand, the look she shoots Bull on the way out dares him to say something, but he only gives a small wave, and a shit-eating grin that promises a truly ridiculous amount of jokes on her behalf upon her return. Blackwall looks like he’s trying not to smile too much.

Solas holds the door open, and Ellana tries not to trip on her way across the uneven doorstep.

She’s glad of the coat as they set off down the street, the air that knocks against her hard and cold with frost, and she’s stealing glances like an idiot before they’ve rounded the first corner. Solas’ gait is long and elegant, and she’s never before been more conscious of her own two feet, legs not quite as long and her walk not even half as graceful, but years with Bull for a friend has taught her how to keep up.

He asks about her day so far, polite inquiries, and seamlessly toeing the line between friendly curiosity and the overly personal questions brimming in her own chest; sitting restless on the tip of her tongue. There’s so much she wants to ask, but a reluctance accompanies the urge – an unwillingness to cross the line before he does. But it’s a companionable exchange, and she’s already laughing by the time they’ve crossed the small park a few streets down from her shop, her previous nervousness nowhere to be seen.

She realizes she’s forgotten to ask where they’re going, when Solas makes a sudden turn down a side-street. It’s a much finer neighbourhood than the one where she runs her business, and the building where he comes to a stop doesn’t look like it contains quite as many tortured ghosts.

The coffee shop sits behind a stained glass door, the space small but compact. It’s an odds-and-ends assortment of furniture, made to look untidy, but the expensive wood counter and the stained glass wall behind it betrays its attempted look of shabby-chic. An enormous chandelier hangs suspended from the ceiling in the centre of the room, none of the chairs seem to match, and there’s a woman strumming a lute of all things in the corner, humming under her breath.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you, Solas,” the barista greets, breezing by with a tray of glasses, before disappearing through a door to the back.

“Flissa,” Solas explains, at Ellana’s raised brows. “The proprietor.” At her questioning look, he smiles. “I come here sometimes.”

Her amusement brims, manifesting in a smile. “You don’t drink coffee, but you’re a regular?”

“They serve more than coffee,” he counters easily, gesturing towards a table by the window.

There’s something strangely archaic about his mannerisms, Ellana finds. He holds doors open, and now takes her coat; waits until she’s taken a seat, before following. She’s made a half-educated guess at his age, and is tempted to let slip a joke, but not knowing how well it would be received, tucks the urge away for a later time.

She’s loosening her scarf from around her neck when an elven girl appears at her elbow, notepad in hand. Sporting short blond hair and a pert nose that’s wrinkled at something or the other, she levels Solas with a surprisingly challenging look.

“What can I get you?”

His raised brow speaks of a challenge taken. Ellana blinks. “The usual, Sera.”

“Decaf tea, yeah?” She snorts. “Old man’s drink,” she murmurs, making a show of jotting it down on her notepad. “Wouldn’t kill you to try something new, you know.” Then, with a quick, feral smile. “Or what do I know? It just might.” She gives Ellana a look then. “You’re a young thing. You know he’s old as balls?”

Solas sighs. Ellana finds it’s hard to keep a level face. “I’ve – gathered.”

“And  _bald_  as balls,” Sera adds.

She lets slip the smile now, but she doesn’t dare look at Solas. “Oh, I don’t really mind that.”

A blonde brow arches, but there’s an impish smile curled at the corner of her full mouth. “Riiiight. Your order, then?”

“Just a regular coffee for me.”

“Diluted shite, or the stuff that’ll rot your teeth?”

Somehow that too feels like a challenge. “The teeth-rotting stuff.”

Sera grins, but she’s looking at Solas now. “Good going, Baldy. I like her,” she says, and for some reason, makes it sound like a cheerful warning. “Might actually give you decaf this time.” And then she’s gone, manoeuvring fluidly between the chairs and twirling the pen between quick and nimble fingers.

“I apologize,” Solas says once she’s gone, drawing Ellana’s eyes back. “She is – colourful.”

She grins. “Kinder words than she’d use to describe you, I think.”

His laughter is nice, she’d decided that upon their first meeting, but hearing it now feels…different. More intimate, almost; the setting far more personal. It’s a pleasant, rolling lilt; calm and contained, like the rest of him. Something warm coils together in the pit of her stomach, a warm flutter of feeling. “I have no doubt.”

Chewing on her lip, her curiosity is a relentless thing, spurred further by his easy smile; the welcoming humour. “So I’ve been wondering,” she says. “What exactly is it that you do? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Solas seems to consider the question a moment, or – her, Ellana realizes. He’s considering her, and suddenly she feels like he can tell quite easily just how many things she wants to ask. There’s a gleam of amusement in his eyes, and something she thinks might be pleasure.

“I do book illustrations,” he says at length. “And some freelance work.”

An artist, then, like she’d suspected. The thought is oddly pleasing.

“Any of your work I might know?”

His smile curves a little. “If you readily frequent salons in Orlais, perhaps,” he says, and for a moment she wonders what the joke is that she doesn’t understand, when he adds, “I have done some illustrations of the Chant, but they are few. As for my paintings, you will find some of them in a local gallery. You might know it – the owner is one Madame de Fer. A formidable woman.”

Her eyes have widened, quite despite herself. “You’ve got your art at Vivienne’s?” By her tone alone he must know she’s impressed, but Ellana finds she doesn’t mind. “She’s notoriously picky.”

His smile is at once understanding and a tinge wicked. “She has impeccable taste,” he agrees. “Though I realize it sounds somewhat self-applauding.”

Ellana laughs, strangely delighted. “If you’ve got your art on Viv’s walls, I think you’ve earned the right to boast a little.”

Solas doesn’t argue, but regards her curiously. “You speak as though you are familiar. Might I ask how you know each other?”

Ellana hesitates. When she’d first told Bull about the job, she hadn’t been able to contain her pride, but other than to her co-workers, she’s not usually one to brag, though the urge strikes her now, a sudden, bold thing.

“That big, imposing desk she’s got?” she says then, and seeing his nod, “I hand carved the wyverns on it. A personal favour.”

His brows lift, and she’s glad to see the unabashed approval on his face. “Impressive.” Then, holding her gaze, “It appears I have made a wise choice.”

She knows full well he means the book, but her heart jumps, a startled, gleeful reaction to the smoothly uttered words. And she doesn’t even try to pretend she’s not flattered, but offers some resistance to his claim, paltry though it is. “He says, even though it’s a week overdue.”

Solas grins, full lips stretching into a smile that makes the corners of his eyes curve, and she’s suddenly keenly aware of herself and where she sits, feet stretched out below the table, almost-but-not-quite touching the leg of his pants. It’s such a pathetically innocent thing, but for a moment it’s all she can think about.

Sera returns then, a tray in hand, but she says nothing, only offers them both a lingering look, before depositing their drinks without preamble, and when she leaves, sing-song murmurs the lyrics from  _Egg Man_  under her breath. Solas ignores her, and Ellana has to tuck her lip between her teeth to stifle her smile.

Solas clears his throat, picking up his cup, slender fingers curling around the handle. “As I said, I am in no hurry. And you mentioned you were ill?”

Relishing in the warmth and the smell wafting up from her own cup, Ellana nods. “Just a head cold, but it’s not exactly good for productivity.”

“I suspect you have not found time to work on your project,” he says. “A shame to see it unfinished.”

The remark is innocuous enough, but there’s a curiosity there, politely veiled. She’s not surprised he’d inquire about it – he’s not the first, though he’s definitely the most courteous.

“You can ask, you know,” she says then, fingers tightening around her cup. The heat presses back, a welcome shock of warmth against her palms.

Solas lifts his own to his lips, grey eyes holding hers. “About the tree?”

“ _Vhenadahl_ ,” she corrects.

His brows furrow at that. First she thinks his expression curious, but then she catches the flicker of something else in his eyes.

Unease crawls up her spine. “What?” she asks.

Solas shakes his head. “I am merely surprised. I had thought it a purely artistic venture.” The way he speaks makes it sound as though he’d preferred it to be just that.

“It’s for my clan,” Ellana explains, something wary creeping into her voice.

“Ah,” he says, and something goes strangely cold within her at the twinge of disappointment that accompanies the lone word. “You are Dalish, then. I had not thought – you do not bear the markings.”

“No,” she says, carefully. “I don’t.” Then, feeling strangely emboldened, “I’m sorry. You sound like you’ve got misgivings.”

If she’d expected an excuse, it’s not what she gets. “I have my opinions,” he says, evasively.

“Which are?”

A shrug. “They are misguided. Clinging to remnants of the old ways – vestiges whose meanings they do not understand.”

“ _Misguided_?” A note of incredulity slips into her tone.

“They are children,” he elaborates. “Far from what they should be. Not that different from those they call  _shemlen_ , though they would never consider themselves such.”

She might be gaping. “And you’re, what? An expert? Should I call you  _hahren_ , or would you consider it an insult?” She’s pointedly aware of her own, shrill-sounding voice, but his sudden aversion has stirred something she can’t quite contain – some long-buried well of self-righteous feeling that comes surging to the surface.

“I make no such claim,” Solas says calmly. “I merely stated an opinion. Their culture is lost, yet they fumble in the dark, holding distorted images in place of those they once revered.”

“At least they  _try_ ,” she snaps. “Even when everyone else forget, they remember.”

“And if what they remember is false? Are the traditions still worth keeping?”

She stares at him from across the small table. Every ounce of delight and anticipation that had lightened her heart has seeped away, leaving a hollow void in their wake. She hadn’t expected this, but then she hadn’t known him long enough to know quite what to expect. But that he’d have such strong opinions on the People, of all things…She’s no stranger to differing opinions, and she’s known criticism all her life, but from one of their own?

Except now that she looks at him, nothing about him suggests that he’s in any way related to the People, least of all through any desire of his own.

“The  _vhenadahl_  is not a homage to the old ways,” Ellana says then, her anger no less bright, but better contained, lacing every word with venom, not fire. “It’s in memory of my clan. And the reason I don’t have  _vallaslin_  is because they were all wiped out before I was old enough to get them.”

It’s a vague reference, but there’s been no event quite so brutal in decades, and so she’s not surprised when recognition sparks in his eyes, before settling, a solemn weight of understanding in their depths.

“Clan Lavellan,” Solas echoes her thoughts. “The uprising in Wycome.”

Her smile is hard; a humourless, barbed edge. “But maybe it’s for the best, right? Fewer misguided souls in Thedas to tarnish the traditions of the People?”  _Not fair to ascribe that opinion to him_ , part of her whispers, but it’s quickly silenced.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and suddenly it’s all too much. Hands shaking around her steaming cup, she stares into the dark liquid, feeling strangely removed from herself – from the woman all but spitting her indignation in his face. It’s all wrong – it wasn’t supposed to go like this. She’d imagined fumbling over her words, nervous and giddy, and that same, comfortable conversation that had marked their meetings so far. Instead she feels exposed, sitting in a strange coffee shop she doesn’t know, and having laid bare more than she’s comfortable with over the span of just a few minutes.

She puts her cup own, her intention loud in the sudden gesture. Solas looks like he might rise from his seat. “I apologize. I–”

“Don’t.” The chair scrapes against the floor; the noise draws eyes from across the room. She’s idly aware that she’s crying. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t get up to stop her, and when she makes for the door, almost at a run, desperate to get away, to get outside, to  _breathe_  –

Solas doesn’t follow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The door slams, rattling against the frame, and he watches the red bounce of her hair as it disappears, swallowed by the cold. He’s keenly aware of Sera behind the counter, her silence as loud as everything else about her, but there’s nothing hurtled his way – no snide remark, or even a joke on his behalf. Only a set of deeply furrowed brows, and he feels the full weight of her gaze, unflinching and unapologetic.

Before him are their two cups, barely touched, and he’s surprised at the regret that swells in his chest, fierce and unforgiving. She’d caught him off guard – he hadn’t expected that level of devotion, nor such a forceful reaction to his words, which seem foolish now, in retrospect.

And her clan. He had not expected that.

He’d been young when it had happened, fresh out of graduate school and with a mind too sharp and too narrow to fully understand the implications of the event. An atrocious act to be sure, but he had not felt the need to mourn the clan’s demise, nor to advocate the rights of his “people”. He’s never considered the Dalish as such. The debate about elven rights – of the rights of the Dalish, in particular – had lasted for months, until he’d been thoroughly sick of the subject altogether.

But if he’d known, he would at least have phrased himself better. The sole survivor – the girl who’d been out setting traps in the woods, only to return to find her clan slaughtered. It’s just a brief memory; a small detail in a much larger picture, but he finds it now with ease. He’d read her name once, but spared no thought to her in the years that had passed since; had forgotten the name, and the girl. But he knows it now, and her, Ellana, and there’s no forgetting the hurt look on her face as she’d put her cup down, her hands trembling, and her previously barely-contained smile wiped away entirely.

He’ll go back to the shop, Solas decides. He knows anger like that – quick to rise, and quicker still to fade. Perhaps she will accept his apology when she’s had time to cool down.

Depositing a few coins on the table, he’s risen from his seat when his phone rings. A strange, wild feeling springs to life in his chest, and he recognizes it as  _hope_  just before he remembers that he’s yet to give her his number.

He makes note of the caller ID, before holding it to his ear. “Hello?”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, and an ominous shiver climbs a path up his spine. And then, Cassandra’s voice–

_“You might want to sit down.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

She returns to the shop after a brisk walk and an idle hour spent in the park, letting her ire settle to something manageable. She knows she overreacted. Logically, she knows this, but she’d been caught off guard by how angry his words had made her – how much they’d affected her. She’s no vocal advocator for the rights of her people, but her clan…

It was a desperately sore spot, and he’d hit it, however unintentional the blow. Struck where it would hurt most, when she’d least expected it.

“You okay, Boss?”

Ellana realizes she hasn’t moved since entering, and looks up to find Bull in the doorway, brow creased with concern.

There’s no way she can convincingly lie herself out of this, she knows, but, “Yeah,” she says, then clears her throat. “I’m fine.”

He nods. He doesn’t ask about coffee, or about Solas, but then Bull has always known when and when not to ask questions, a trait she’s suddenly fiercely glad for. But her gratefulness has clogged up her throat, and she can’t get the words out.

Silence pools between them, a great, yawning gap. But, “You know where the liquor’s stashed,” he says then. “Just say the word.” Then he retreats, his great horns ducking beneath the door as he vanishes into the workshop. Ellana watches him go, indecision rendering her as useless as a log.

Her thoughts draw her eyes to the  _vhenadahl_ , the great, carved trunk and the delicately curling branches. The sparse dotting of leaves that she never finished. Her last relationship still sits, fresh in her mind though it’s been months. He’d never understood. Though a city-born elf, he’d never spoken ill of the Dalish, but he’d never understood what her heritage had meant, despite her many attempts at explaining. In the end he’d left, unable to see a future when she kept clinging to the past – to what she’d lost. She’d been with him when she’d first started on the tree, and had stopped when he’d left, feeling foolish for her sentimentality.

She looks at Solas’ book, sitting on the counter. Her tools, neatly laid out beside it. And her words come back to her now, sharp and cutting, and carving vicious paths in a fledgeling friendship. He’d apologized, but she’d been too angry to even consider it – hadn’t even dignified it with listening, just stormed out like a child.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

A short breath. Chucking her scarf and coat, Ellana moves to grab her chisel, fingers curling around the worn handle with a determination she hasn’t felt in a long time. Steeling her resolve, she buries her pride deep. She’ll explain herself when he comes to collect his book. Perhaps she’ll even apologize.

But right now she’s got work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

The book is finished a week later, as promised.

It’s some of her finest work, Ellana thinks – the owl in the centre, wings regally spread, and every feather etched with careful precision. The embellishments around the edges and the spine is a design of her own creation, deeply-chiselled whorls and waves; the relief causing an illusion of light and shadow, begging for the reverent trace of a fingertip along the finely carved ridges.

She wraps it in silk paper and leaves it on the counter, fixes her hair twice – once up, a loose bun, then down, then up again. Then she gives up the whole venture, sits down to watch Bull whittle a Darkspawn piece for his chess board, and to keep her hands busy works idly on a discarded block of wood until she’s covered head to toe in dust, and it would be true to her luck to have him show up  _now_ , but he doesn’t. The day goes by, and the next, and the next, and there’s no sign of Solas.

At first she tries not to think too much about it – doesn’t want to think about it, or him, and the words they’d exchanged last. Shame burns in her heart at the memory, and she can’t bear to look at the  _vhenadahl_ , always at the corner of her eye, no matter where she turns. She doesn’t even know who she’s truly angry at – him, for his callous remarks, or herself, for taking it so bloody personally.

But if she’s waiting for an apology, or even for him to show up at all, she appears to be waiting in vain, and irritation sparks when she thinks about the book – the hours spent, unpaid if his refusal to show up is some kind of silent, petty rebuttal to their argument. The confusing part is that he doesn’t strike her as the type to do such a thing, but if not that, then what? For all their previous meetings he’s exhibited a near mechanical sense of punctuality, but now there’s hasn’t been so much as a word. And of course, she still doesn’t have his number, or even an address. What’s worse, the thought that his absence could be due some misconstrued notion that she needs  _space_  rankles more than she’d like to admit. She’s a professional – she’s endured more than her share of insufferable customers. A differing opinion wouldn’t have hindered her work, and the fact that he might think that bothers her more than anything else.

The days pass in a quiet haze, and she moves between projects with a half-hearted diligence in a vain attempt to distract herself, but failing to reach the singular mindset that would keep her thoughts from drifting. But she’s sitting by her workbench one late afternoon when the bell chimes, and she hears the rumble of thunder from outside, following at the heels of the door heralding someone’s arrival with its usual gusto. It’s been pouring down all day, and she’s surprised anyone would venture out in this weather, but a flicker of hope bursts to life behind her breast at the thought that it might be  _him_ , and she’s on her feet before the door has slammed shut again, almost forgetting to put down her chisel in her hurry.

Her hunch is proven right a moment later, entering the front room to find him standing just inside the doorway. Dressed all in black and drenched from the rain, Solas looks so far removed from the calm and collected man she’s come to expect, the sight stops Ellana dead in her tracks.

She’s tempted to ask if he’s forgotten his umbrella, the light-hearted words perched on the tip of her tongue, but there’s a niggling thought at the back of her mind – black shirt, black pants, black wool coat. He poses such a stark, colourless figure, and accompanied by the sorrowful furrow of his brows, it takes only a moment to put the pieces together.

“My friend,” he says, voice roughened with grief, turning his soft syllables hoarse and scratchy. An answer to the question she can’t bring herself to ask, and he doesn’t have to explain just what friend he’s referring to.

“No,” she breathes, a mournful pitch making her voice crack, and she’s not sure exactly what she’s denying.

“I just came from the funeral,” Solas continues, and she hears the twinge of confusion in the words, spoken to the wall behind her. She doubts it was his intention to stop by, today of all days, and whatever lingering irritation his absence had wrought is snuffed out with the knowledge of what’s kept him away.

He shakes his head, though Ellana hasn’t said a word. “I – apologize. Between the arrangements –” He stops. He’s still not quite looking at her, gaze fleeting and erratic. Then, expression softening, “I have been remiss. You were due your payment.”

“Solas–”

“Please,” he says, cutting her off, as though he can’t bear to hear her speak. “I would like to pay what I owe.”

She wants to say something, but her tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of her mouth. So instead she acts, movements stiff and awkward as she reaches for the wrapped parcel, still sitting where she’d left it, well over a week ago now. When she turns back, he’s handing her an envelope, and it feels –  _wrong_. It feels like business, and only that, and when she means to take it, the hand that holds out the parcel does not feel like her own.

Solas accepts it with wordless thanks, holding it in front of him the way he had the day he’d first shown up, wearing that bemused smile that’s no more than a ghost now, conjured only by her memory, and she’s saddened to realize she can’t remember the exact curve.

And she still feels like she needs to  _say_ something.

“Would you–” But she pauses, unsure of what she’s asking. “You should check,” she says then. Blurts, almost. “To see if it turned out the way you’d hoped.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “I would – had I any expectations, I am sure it exceeds them,” he says then, and he doesn’t move to unwrap it. Instead he clears his throat. “I am certain she would have loved it.”

The remark, for all that it’s such a staggeringly simple thing, strikes like a blow, and Ellana can tell it hurts to speak the words more than it does hearing them.

And she doesn’t know how to respond. Of course he wouldn’t need to inspect it, what would be the use, with the recipient dead?

She feels cold. A thought crawls from somewhere dark – if only she hadn’t been sick, she would have finished it when she’d first promised to have it done. He would have been able to give it to his friend, before–

Before.

Solas seems to come back to himself, pulling his gaze from the parcel. “I should go. Thank you.” A pause, then, “And I am truly sorry,” he adds, quietly, and for some reason she feels like he’s apologizing for more than just his words in the coffee shop. “For all the trouble I have caused you.”

He doesn’t look back as he turns to leave, and the door slides closed behind him, shutting out the pounding of the rain against the pavement. Another roll of thunder curls through the air, heavy and foreboding, and a shiver races, cold and trembling up her spine.

“Damn.” Ellana hears the quiet exclamation, but doesn’t look to where Bull is standing in the doorway behind her – doesn’t have a mind to, another thought taking hold of her, to shut out anything else. A sudden compulsion.

She doesn’t bother to grab her jacket, and she’s out the door running before Bull has the chance to call after her.

The rain pelting down mercilessly makes it difficult to see, a downpour so relentless she’s soaked through before she’s made it to the end of the block. Turning on her heel, she peers through the rain, the sparse autumn light coupled with the overcast sky giving the impression of early evening. She spots a pair of headlights passing down the street to her left, a green umbrella some paces down the sidewalk, and beyond it, a single dark shape, no umbrella held above a head bent against the onslaught–

The syllables tear from her throat before she’s had the chance to think the better of it and bite them back.

Solas turns at the sound of her approach, running until she’s gasping, hair plastered to her face, and through the rain Ellana sees the flicker of surprise that crosses his expression. But he doesn’t ask why she’s there, and when she makes to take a step towards him, he doesn’t flinch. She makes an idle note that he’s tucked the book inside his coat; a meagre protection from the rain, and there’s something almost painfully hopeless about the sight. But then what does it matter?

She considers telling him why she’s come charging after him, but finds she can’t even dredge up a believable excuse. She had no plan, Ellana realizes, standing close enough to touch him now, to –

Oh.

The desire is so sudden it lodges her breath in her throat. And there’s nothing professional about this, and she knows he’s thinking the same thing; sees the passage of his thoughts behind his eyes as he regards her, seeming to gauge her intentions.

“I’m sorry,” she says then, her ragged breathing wrapping the words in a choked gasp. But she has to say  _something_ , because the silence is dragging on and the courage that had pushed her out the door seems to have abandoned her completely. “About your friend.”

Solas drops his gaze, and seems to contemplate the ground at their feet, standing so close – her dirty sneakers and his pristine, polished shoes. Ellana considers the sight, and the stark contrast between them. Her oldest, ugliest sweater, riddled with holes and clinging to her skin, and his funeral clothes, clean and pressed, if completely soaked through.

She has the bizarre urge to laugh, but it doesn’t last long, and there’s nothing truly humorous about their situation, anyway.

A hand comes to cradle her jaw, then, the gesture so unexpected she jerks in response, eyes startled and wide shooting up to meet his surprisingly level gaze. His skin is cold from the rain, fingertips touching against her hair, sopping wet and sticking to her face. And he’s looking at her with an expression she can’t place, but for a single, nearly overwhelming moment Ellana thinks he might kiss her.

He leans forward, the weight of his brow touching against her own, and she can’t tell if it’s an apology or an invocation – a prayer for strength. And it’s not a kiss like she’d thought, but desperately intimate all the same, stealing her breath and every coherent thought she’d managed to gather between the rain and her sprint from the shop.

Her hand lifts hesitantly to curl in his jacket, the fabric wet and cold where she grips it between shaking fingers. And it’s all she can manage but not even close to what she wants, and she doesn’t know what to say; can’t find any words of consolation when she looks for them, though she’s heard them enough times herself to know all the platitudes by heart.

She thinks about their argument, but her anger feels old, as old as the subject of their disagreement, and she can’t find it in herself to care now, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, strangers still and yet not, half-embracing and teetering, like whoever moves next will decide – what exactly, she doesn’t know. Everything. What they were. What they are.

A sigh falls, hot against her cheeks. She feels him pull his hand back, letting it drop to his side, but he doesn’t draw away at once.

“Thank you for your consideration,” Solas tells her evenly, the grief-roughed cadence of his voice almost too low to catch below the drum of the rain. And when he moves to step back, the distance expanding between them like a yawning gap, sucking the air from her already starved lungs, all Ellana can do is stare.

And when he turns to leave now she doesn’t follow, heels rooted to the ground like she might sink through it, watching his retreating back, the heavy weight of his coat on his shoulders and his loping steps. And she’s struck by the realization that this could be the last time she sees him – no number, and no meeting planned.

But before the thought has had time to fully settle he’s gone, a dark shadow wrapped up in the falling rain, and leaving her standing on the sidewalk.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He returns to the loft to find the lights on, not the unforgiving glare of the lamps he uses when he paints, but a softer glow – candles on the floor by the windows beyond which the city sprawls, suffused in the rainy dark, and a low-hanging lamp in the corner, casting odd shadows against the frescoes that climb the length of the walls.

Cole looks up when he enters, but offers no comment on the state of his clothes, and the water making puddles on the floor.

Solas places the parcel on the desk. The moisture from his coat has seeped into the silk paper, but not all the way through, and he unwraps it with a regretful curiosity that promises nothing but pain, shaking fingers pulling away the thin wrapping, wound several times around the book with the same care that went into carving the owl that greets him. And although prepared for the sight, it doesn’t hurt any less, but it’s a hurt that’s his own doing, because he’d asked for an owl, hadn’t he? Had specifically requested it, and the reminder is almost too much to bear. And where any other day he’d take his time examining the expert craftsmanship, he can’t even make himself touch it now. But he sees the love that’s etched into the wood; the meticulous detail in every groove, and every relief. There’s pride there, too, and he thinks about how her face would have alighted with it, if he’d come to collect it under different circumstances.

But all he can see now is her expression, pale cheeks wet from the rain and eyes bright and searching, but he’d had no answers to give, only apologies and hollow banalities.

“Cassandra called earlier,” Cole says then. “She left a message. Clipped tones. Anger to cover the grief. She would rather punch it to make it go away, but it’s not that simple.”

Solas nods, absently. He’d left the funeral before speaking to anyone, and isn’t surprised Cassandra would call to check up on him. For a moment he considers calling her back, but decides against it. Knowing her, she’ll likely come by in the morning, no matter what he does.

“And Vivienne stopped by,” Cole adds, almost as an afterthought.

Solas sighs. “I have nothing new for her.” He hasn’t had the mind to work on anything. No inspiration in idle fingers.

Cole shakes his head. “Not work. Condolences. Sweets to take the sting away. She is hard, but she cares, too, in her own way.” He points towards the small kitchen nook. “There is a box of cakes in the fridge.” He pauses. “She doesn’t like me, but there was one with custard.” He sounds pleased. “I like custard.”

Solas doesn’t feel hungry. He hasn’t felt hungry in days – has barely slept. Every time he closes his eyes he thinks about Cassandra’s phone call, and the newspaper. The headline that seems burned into his memory – _Young Woman Mugged, Still in Critical Condition_. And the ones that had followed, announcing her death; the prosecution of the muggers. And then, the silence. No further mention of the tragedy that had taken place. The city had shaken it off, and moved on.

He’s too tired for anger. For days it’s all he’s known, but now all he feels is exhaustion, a slow cold that festers like a wound; a brittle sort of pain that makes it hard to breathe, like frost in his lungs.

“She wanted you to be happy,” Cole speaks up then, after a lull. “She was always happy. Bright, living, love of learning. She was happy for you, too, even when you were not.”

Solas says nothing. She had been fond of Cole – had treated him without the wary curiosity shown by so many others. To Solas she had been a constant in a tumultuous existence of fickle, fleeting people, and now she is dead, and there is no one left to care so deeply about his happiness.

But even as he considers the thought, the image of Ellana resurfaces. It’s hard to forget the press of her against him, the thin sweater clinging to soft curves, and the urge to lean down, to close the distance and leave no room to so much as  _breathe_  –

But it wouldn’t have been right – wouldn’t have been fair to her, to allow his grief to rule his actions, and take the comfort she’d likely only offered because of it. He still remembers the look of betrayal on her face when she’d stormed out of the coffee shop. He knows she’s yet to forgive him for that.

No. It wouldn’t have been right.

Tugging off his tie, Solas makes for the shower, craving warmth, any source of warmth, just to thaw the unrelenting, unforgiving cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that saying -- it gets worse before it gets better?


	5. Chapter 5

She stands on the pavement outside the gallery. It’s been ten minutes, but she’s no closer to deciding whether or not to brave the front door than when she’d first arrived.

The entrance is at once cheerfully welcoming and woefully intimidating – a periwinkle blue door, the paint recently touched up, lovely and unassuming and with a frosted glass window bearing the elegant script announcing  _Madame de Fer Art Gallery._ But the large, curved iron door handle suggests nothing quite so demure, and her hands twitch, restless indecision sitting like a tremble in her fingers. The wind tosses her hair into her face, a shock of cold bearing the promise of snow, but her feet won’t budge from where she’s all but dug her heels into the sidewalk.

 _It’s just a question. Either she knows or she doesn’t._ Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, Ellana takes the first three steps in two strides, before pausing with her hand on the door handle, gloved fingers curling around the cold iron.  _Just one question. You don’t even need to do anything about the answer, if you get it._

A short breath. The cold is a burn in her chest.  _Here goes._

There’s no bell to chime her arrival, and the gallery is draped in a quiet hush, making her footsteps jarringly loud on the dark hardwood floor. Not much has changed since she was last there. Pristine white walls bear the cream of the artistic crop – works of both famous and nameless hands, the latter of which Vivienne has garnered something of a reputation for digging up and out of obscurity. Ellana allows her eyes to trail along the wall to her right, gaze lingering on the small plaques sitting just below the frames. She wonders if she’ll see his name on one of them, or if he’s the sort who prefers the cloak of anonymity to the mantle of fame. The temptation to walk along the rows of paintings to check is greater than she’d like to admit, but instead of indulging she turns, and veers into the room on her left.

Dark eyes glance up at her approach, before a smile blooms, smoothing the severe lines at the corners of a full mouth. Sitting behind her desk, Vivienne embodies the paradox of her gallery – wearing a soft white blouse hanging onto a slender frame, but seated behind a desk that takes up almost the entire corner of the room. A wood so dark it almost looks black, the wyverns carved along the front and sides are Ellana’s own work. She’d spent days on that desk, and it’s one of her favourite pieces. Perhaps all the more so, because Vivienne had approved of it.

“Ellana, darling,” she exclaims with delight, coming around the desk to greet her. “How long has it been?”

The warm welcome shakes loose some of the tension in her shoulders, but she can’t quite make herself relax. Still, the smile she finds is genuine. “Almost a year, I think. I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by before now.”

Vivienne waves her off. “It’s true you’ve made yourself scarce after you opened up shop, but it’s understandable.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice. “There’s no shame in being busy.” Eyes twinkling, she nods to the desk. “I’ve had quite a few asking about the desk, and I’ve sent them your way. It’s easier now that you have an active business up and running.” She sighs. “Though why you decided on that dreadful name, I’ll never know.”

“ _Straight off the Chopping_   _Block_  was Bull’s idea,” Ellana retorts dryly, shifting her weight to one hip. “And it was either that or let him decide what colour to pain the front door, and I’d rather have a quirky name than a bright pink entrance.”

Vivienne looks at her with a deadpan expression. “Your door is purple, dear. It’s garish whichever way you look at it.”

Ellana grins. “But it’s memorable.”

That prompts a laugh. “I cannot argue with that,” she concedes, as she turns towards the desk, where a porcelain teapot sits on a silver tray. “Would you like a cup? It’s fresh. Orlesian blend.”

“No thank you, I was just–” the words sit on her tongue, but they won’t budge. It’s so easy to just  _ask_ – she already knows there’s a connection; Solas had told her so himself. And if his work is included in one of her exhibits, Vivienne must have something, surely. A phone number or an address. All she has to do is ask.

 _What are you doing, Ellana Lavellan?_ Rooting out people he knows, just to find some way to contact him, when he’d had ample opportunity to give her his number and chosen not to? If he’d truly wanted to get in touch, he could easily have sought her out at the shop. And then there’s the regrettably inescapable fact that she’d given him  _her_  number, which he’d obviously decided not to use.

All of a sudden she feels terribly, mind-numbingly foolish.

"I, ah – I was just in the neighbourhood, and I thought I’d stop by,” she finishes lamely, and keeps her hands resolutely at her sides. She prays her smile doesn’t waver too much before those keen eyes.

Vivienne’s brows raise, and when a small, puzzled smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, Ellana knows she’s fooling no one. “My dear, I do believe you are lying.”

She opens her mouth, but her repertoire of excuses deems it fit to abandon her memory completely, and she has nothing to offer but her gaping.

Thankfully, Vivienne doesn’t leave her to sweat. “Don’t worry, I won’t push, though I won’t say I’m not intrigued.” She considers Ellana a moment. “It’s nothing serious, I hope?”

Ellana shakes her head. “No, it’s – actually pretty stupid, now that I think about it.” She tries to laugh it off, but her mirth sounds forced. Awkward.

Vivienne still doesn’t look convinced, and Ellana wonders if she’s thinking about taking back her promise of not pushing, when she says, “I’m meeting a client in half an hour, but if you would like to discuss the source behind those frown-lines, I’m free later in the week. I’d suggest meeting for coffee, but I have a feeling this requires a…stiffer kind of drink.”

Ellana smiles, relief loosening the brittle tension in her lips. “I might take you up on that. The stiff drink, if nothing else.” And her heart feels a little lighter, even if she still feels three different kinds of foolish for what she’d come here to do. “It was good seeing you, Viv. Sorry it was just a short drop-in.”

Vivienne’s expression softens. “Likewise, darling.” When Ellana makes for the door, she calls after her, “And you tell Iron Bull that I’d quite like one of his chessboards for my study, though nothing so crude as Darkspawn. Chevaliers, perhaps.” She hums. “Yes. Definitely chevaliers. Mahogany and rosewood.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ellana laughs softly. Opening the door, she avoids looking towards the room with the paintings, the ones that may or may not be his. And with her mission a failure, she tucks her hands deep in her pockets, and steels her heart as she leaves the gallery behind her, along with her only lead.

By the time she’s made it around the corner, it’s started to snow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She’s thinking about taking a bus home when she suddenly decides against it, cutting a path across the city square until she finds the familiar building, and pausing only for a short stop at a coffee cart before making her way inside. The doorman recognizes her with a smile, holding the door open as she breezes past and across the marble lobby floor towards the stairs. The building is one of the city’s oldest, housing the university library. The floor she’s headed for doesn’t quite have marble floors, but it’s nothing to scoff at, and the bank of windows gives the offices a rather impressive view of the university campus on one side, and the city proper on the other.

Dorian is sitting at his desk when she shoulders her way past the door, a frown pulling heavy on his brow as he squints at his computer screen. He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing as she comes to a stop in front of his desk, though he offers an offhand, “You look tired.” 

“And you’re getting wrinkles between your eyes.”

 _That_ claims his attention. “Uncalled for.” He leans back in his chair, surveying her with a look of mock hurt. “If I’d known you were looking for fisticuffs, I would have prepared.” He glances at the two cups in her hands. “I do hope they’re not both for you – thatwould be very rude, although you’re off to a good start, as far as flinging insults is concerned.”

Ellana grins, pushing one of the cups towards him. “It’s not lunch, but there’s a truly disgusting amount of cream and hazelnut in yours to make up for it.”

Dorian groans, reaching for the offered coffee. “I could kiss your crude mouth.”

“Says the kettle,” she bandies back, taking a seat in the chair across from his desk. “Just because  _you_  cuss in Tevene doesn’t make it any less crude, you know.”

He snorts, lifting off the lid to take a sniff. “It’s melodic, and I haven’t heard anyone complain.”

“That’s because they have no idea what it is you’re actually saying.”

He grins. “More’s the shame.”

There’s a knock on the door, before a familiar face pokes inside, wearing a look of extreme exasperation. “Dorian. Do you have a minute?”

“Ah, Felix. Do come in.” He motions to the occupied chair. “You remember Ellana.”

The man nods. “Nice to see you again.” He shoots Dorian a look. “Livius Erimond is in my office, and I’m on the verge of committing murder.”

Dorian scoffs. “I’m surprised he knew where to find the library, let alone this department.”

Felix sighs. “If only he’d arrived by accident, but he didn’t. And as Father is conveniently away, he’s haranguing  _me_  about the new department cuts. Mind giving me a hand?” A smile quirks, a flicker of tired mirth. “Or him a good shove? At this point I’ll take either.”

Dorian only grins, before pushing away from the desk. Striding past, he offers Ellana a warning look. “I’ll just be a moment. Don’t go carving anything naughty into any desks while I’m gone.”

She rolls her eyes fondly. “That was one time, and we were both drunk. And I’m pretty sure it was  _your_  idea.” She remembers very little from that office party, to be frank. Dorian had invited her on a whim, and she’d come along for free drinks, and somehow found herself cajoled into scribbling a dirty rhyme in elven along the bottom of a very fancy desk in a  _very_  fancy office.

“Your hairpin,” he counters easily.

“Your boss’ desk!” she calls after him, as he disappears out the door, his laughter drifting back from the corridor, along with his final words,

“Your language!”

Shaking her head, she leans back in her chair, and considers his office – a lot less fancy but spacious, for a librarian anyway, and overladen with books, which is no surprise. There’s an extra pair of shoes sitting by the door – unlike her, Dorian had gone out this morning prepared. He wouldn’t risk getting snow on his leather brogues.

Drumming her fingers against the desk, she sips her coffee in silence. The street below is milling with people – most of them students grabbing coffee between lectures, but the whole floor seems quiet, the shuffle of feet beyond the door and muted conversation the only indication that there are other people about.

When ten minutes have ticked by and Dorian has shown no signs of returning, she rises from her seat and makes for his own, far superior chair. He’s left his computer on, and she stares at the screen, and what looks like the online archives.

 _You better have Solitaire on this thing_. Then, minimizing one of the windows, a sudden burst of colour leaps out at her, pulling her attention to an open folder containing a series of pictures of what looks to be a book.

Shameless curiosity makes her click on one of the images, enlarging it, and her breath catches. It looks too new to be a restoration, and on closer inspection of the script, she finds it’s the Chant of Light, but she spares the dark, blocky letters only a glance before her gaze is drawn to the illustrations along the pages. Lovely renditions of the canticles, and hand-painted by the look of it.

The image tugs at something in her mind – a stray memory, of a snippet of conversation –

_“I have done some illustrations of the Chant”_

– and her breath drags from her lungs, a startled,  _hopeful_  sound.

“Well, that has to the most pointless fifteen minutes I’ve ever spent, and I’ve –  _what_  are you doing?”

Drawn rather rudely out of her daze, Ellana glances up to find Dorian in the doorway. “These images–”

He comes around the edge of the desk to peer over her shoulder, seemingly forgotten that he’d caught her snooping on his computer. “Ah, yes. Marvellous, aren’t they? Although I’ve tried telling him his talents could be used to far more productive ends than something that will end up in some toff’s glass cabinet in Orlais.”

 _Him_ , Ellana thinks. And the present tense implies someone living. A friend, maybe?

She almost doesn’t dare hope.

“Who’s the artist?” she asks, and hears her voice waver. For some reason, her heart feels like it’s trying to push its way up her throat.

Thankfully, Dorian doesn’t seem to notice. “His name is Solas. A friend of sorts, I suppose you could call him. A bit of a recluse, though – keeps to himself in his loft. But such is the sacrifice for skill like that.” He nods to the images on the screen, then narrows his eyes at her. “What’s wrong with you?”

She shakes her head. “N-nothing. I’m just – captivated, is all.”

He frowns, and leans closer, and she knows – oh she knows he can tell something is wrong even before his brows raise in an expression of delighted realization.

“You know him.”

“I don’t –  _know_  is a very strong term. We’ve met. A few times.” She’s pointedly not looking at him now, but hears it when he sucks in a breath.

“ _No_ ,” he says then, spinning her chair around to make her face him. “Your mystery customer.”

“Ah–”

“ _Well._ ”

“Dorian–”

“I should have figured you’d go for the scholarly type,” he continues, heedless of her protests. He grins. “So I take it the date was a success, then?”

She tries to think of an explanation that doesn’t sound quite as pathetic as the truth.  _I ran out during an argument and the next I saw him his friend had died and it was at once the saddest and most awkward encounter of my life. Oh, and for some reason I have no way of contacting him. Creators, it sounds like a bloody matinée._

“I’ve – lost his number,” she lies instead, deliberately evading the inquiry about the date. “And there’s something I’d like to talk to him about, but I don’t know how to get a hold of him.”

Dorian raises a brow. “ _Just_  talk?”

“I will shove you down the stairs, Dorian Pavus, I swear to the Creators.”

He laughs. “And here I was just about to offer my assistance, out of the goodness of my heart.”

“I don’t know if I want your assistance,” Ellana mutters. “Or what you mean by assistance, anyhow.”

She receives an eye-roll for that. “I was just going to suggest giving him a call,” he says, before his mouth purses. “But then he almost never picks up. And I don’t have his number on me at the moment, it’s stashed somewhere with my papers at home. I have his email, I suppose, but I think his assistant checks that, so you might want to keep the ardour to a minimum. Or don’t, it’s entirely up to you.”

He looks at her closely then – he must have seen how her face had fallen, Ellana suspects, because what good will sending an email do? If anything, she’d hoped to call him – to hear his voice, preferably not as grief-stricken as the last time she’d seen him.

However, instead of commenting on her obvious disappointment, Dorian says something else entirely.

“But if you’re feeling particularly adventurous today, I have his address.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, she’s feeling far more adventurous than she’d give herself credit for.

The apartment complex looks – quaint. Somehow it’s not what she’d expected. His clothes alone suggested somewhere finer, though the neighbourhood is far above the means of her own pockets. But it’s a stone’s toss from the city’s most popular pub haunts – definitely not the part of town she’d imagined him living in – and she’s spent more than a few minutes wondering if Dorian has given her the right address.

The snow is falling more rapidly now, gathering in her hair and lashes. She hasn’t brought the right coat for this kind of weather, and the cold is seeping in through the fabric. It’s the second time in one day she’s spent loitering outside a building, and she’s starting to feel ridiculous (so much so that she’s tempted to pick up her heels and bolt), when a voice speaks up beside her.

“Coming or going? You can’t decide, hesitation in your feet, rocking back and forth. Stay or go, stay or go. You chew your lip when you’re nervous.”

She blinks, and turns her head to find a young man standing beside her, but he’s not looking at her. Instead he’s looking at the building’s front door, the same one she’s been staring at for the past fifteen minutes. “I’m – sorry?”

He tilts his head, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his eyes. He seems to consider the building. Or her, she’s not entirely sure which. “You can’t decide,” he repeats.

She decides to humour him. “You’re observant.”

He seems to perk up at that. “Thank you.” Then, “I like to observe, but not everyone likes being observed.”

Ellana considers him curiously – the wide-brimmed hat, and the patchwork jacket. A leather bag hangs off one shoulder, laden with something heavy. “Do you live here?” she asks then, motioning to the building.

He shakes his head. “I work here. I am an assistant.” He pauses, then smiles. “I help.”

He’s peculiar, but there’s a soft sort of kindness about him. She feels strangely at ease, and is sorely tempted to ask if she’s at the right address. If he truly is as observant as he’s given the impression of being, he’d no doubt know.

“Do you…know the people who live here?” she chances, after a lull.

He looks at the building. “The lady in 5B smokes a cigarette every Thursday night at ten o’clock. Only one. She cries when she thinks they can’t hear. There is a young couple who have just moved in. They argue over stolen newspapers.” Then, with a small nod at a grey haired woman exiting the building, “She steals them, but not for reading.”

Ellana nods along, and thinks about how to phrase her next question. But with how much personal information he’s divulged about these strangers, she doubts he would find her inquiry inappropriate. “Do you know if there’s a man living there? He’s…in his late thirties, maybe? An elf.”  _Could you possibly get any vaguer?_  “And he’s…”  _Creators, Ellana, just say it._ “…bald.”

To her surprise, the young man nods. “Solas. I know him.”

Her heart leaps, a sudden, violent somersault, but before she can ask another question, he adds, “He’s not home now. He went out earlier.”

Her face falls, and she’s sure it’s evident.  _So much for that, then._ “Oh.”

He looks at her, pale eyes bright. “Would you like me to tell him you were here?”

“No! Ah–” She swallows, and looks for something to say that doesn’t immediately make her sound like a lurker. “I – no, please. I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t.”

If he finds her sudden – and no doubt suspiciously  _enthusiastic_  – refusal, he doesn’t let on. Instead he only nods. “Okay.”

Relief floods her. She doesn’t know what Solas would think, if he was told she’d been caught standing in front of his apartment. “Thank you.”

She receives a small smile. “I am glad to help.”

Ellana nods, not quite sure what else to do. She’s suddenly struck by the mental image of Solas returning, to find her chatting up his neighbour’s assistant.  _Oh, Fen’Harel take me, what if he’s **his**  assistant?_

“Ah, I – I’ll just be going, then.” And she’s picking up her feet before he has the chance to say anything else, moving down the street and away from the apartment complex at a brisk walk that’s not quite running, but not entirely inconspicuous, either.

It’s not until she’s rounded the corner that she feels like she can breathe again, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to pinch the bridge of her nose until it hurts.

A sigh, and her breath is a pale puff of frost before her face. “What am I even doing here?” she murmurs to no one, letting her eyes wander the street around her. The snowfall has lessened to something manageable now, small flakes drifting down to delight elated passers-by. She’s a long way from her own apartment, but she finds a bus stop with little trouble, a small grimace pulling on her face when she notes how long until the one that will take her home. She’ll have to wait, then, and she stuffs her hands into her pockets and tucks her nose into her scarf to ward off the cold, wishing she’d had the foresight to bring along her headphones.

“Well, shit,” a familiar voice says, and she turns to find Varric Tethras standing on the pavement behind her. “Ellana Lavellan, in the flesh.”

A surprised smile breaks through her gloom. “Varric?” she laughs, moving in for an embrace when he opens his arms. The smell of ink and pipe tobacco hits her, as dearly familiar as the belly-deep laugh that reverberates through him. “What are you doing here?”

Pulling back, he grins, gesturing to the street – or the city, it’s hard to tell. “Just moved a few months ago.”

“And here I thought they’d have to drag you kicking and screaming out of Kirkwall.”

A rueful smile pulls at his mouth, and he’s not quick enough to cover it up. “After all the shit that went down with Bartrand, I’m laying low for a while. Hawke’s taking care of things. And this city’s not that bad. Not enough piss-stained taverns, but it’s growing on me.” He looks her up and down, shaking his head. “Shit, but it’s been long. I haven’t seen you since…”

He trails off, and Ellana finishes for him, “Since Bianca was last in town.”

Varric laughs, humourlessly. “Been that long, huh? Should’ve kept in touch, especially after I moved back here. I’ve got no excuse, to be honest.”

Ellana shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, Varric. I’ve been busy with the shop. And things were a little weird. You know, with…” She gestures at the empty air, in an attempt at conveying the whole event – Bianca up and leaving to get married out of the blue, and carting off her business to Val Royeaux. She was also the one who’d convinced Ellana to set up shop in the first place; to follow the pipe dream of living off her art. They’ve kept in touch, despite everything, but things with Varric had been – strained, to say the least.

He expels a breath. “Yeah.  _Weird_  is an understatement.” But the grief on his face doesn’t linger long, and then there’s something else behind his eyes – a mischief she recognizes. “But I’m hoping to remedy that. A few of us are meeting for drinks tomorrow,” he says then, meaningfully. “We’ve got room for one more.”

 _Two offers in one day._  She needs to get out more, if everyone’s jumping at the chance at inviting her, as though she’s just emerged from hibernation.

She considers the dwarf then, and the promise of a night to take her mind off things. Varric is good at that – distractions. Fanciful stories, and enough drinks to help you believe them. And forget your own.

It might not be the worst thing.

A pause, and she relents with a smile. “Sure, why not?”  _It’s better than sitting at home looking at your phone every five minutes._

Her easy acceptance seems to please him. “We’re meeting at the Herald’s Rest. Nine-ish,but someone’s always late. You know the place?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll google it. It can’t be that difficult to find my way, even in the snowstorm the forecast promised. I’ll wear good shoes.”

“There’s that relentless optimism I’ve missed,” he laughs. “Comes in short supply these days, with Hawke busy causing trouble in Kirkwall.” A note of longing colours the words, and she wonders how bad things were for him to pack up his business and leave. Something tells her it’s going to take a few drinks for him to spill.

“I thought she was fixing it?”

He waves her off. “Causing, fixing. It’s Hawke – it all goes for the same thing.”

Ellana smiles at the unbridled fondness in his tone. She’s met Hawke exactly once, and she’d made a lasting impression. Eyes too blue to believe and a laugh that carries, and knuckles that seemed to bear permanent marks of fist-fighting. And still, far from the strangest of Varric’s acquaintances.

“Right. So tell me about these new people of yours,” she says then, in an effort to change the subject. “Anyone I know?”

Varric shakes his head. “New city, new gang. It’s not the same, but they’re not bad. Curly’s a little stiff, but Ruffles and Nightingale know how to throw a party. Seeker’s good company when you’ve got a few drinks in her.”

She shakes her head, but going by the nicknames at least, they’re not bad people. It’s always easy to tell, with Varric penchant for epithets. “Well you know me,” she says. “I’m always up for getting to know new people.”

“Oh, wait ‘til you meet  _Chuckles_  – you’ll give him a run for his money. Or a good beat-down. Man, I’ve got to see that.”

Ellana laughs. “I’ll take your word for it, Varric.” She sees her bus approaching, and waves it down. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Catch you later, Dimples,” he calls after her, watching her step onto the bus before setting off in the direction he’d been heading. Amidst the cold and the snow he stands out, a wild burst of warmth, red and gold and a familiar swagger. It reminds her of old times, struggling through grad school and listening to Varric recounting his adventures in trying to get published over bad ale every Friday.

Settling down into her seat, Ellana allows herself to relax, letting the nervous tension that’s been sitting in her shoulders all day finally bleed out. Despite the twinge of disappointment that remains, her outing hadn’t been entirely for naught.

And even if she never sees Solas again, there is one friendship that’s not yet beyond salvaging.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't mean for the wait to be this long, so this update is long overdue, I'm so sorry!

Phone tucked between chin and shoulder, he’s rifling through the papers on his desk, offering a silent lament to Cole’s unorthodox system of organization that seems to make perfect sense at all other times than when he’s trying to do two things at once.

Like locate his translation notes while keeping up a conversation over the phone.

“Varric,” Solas sighs. “As much as I appreciate your efforts, however unnecessary, to socialize me, it is not a good–”

_“Not a good time. You always says that,”_ comes the snort from the other line. _“Come on, Chuckles. One drink.”_

He pauses, considering the offer. Beyond the bank of windows it’s snowing heavily, thick clumps gathering along the glass, and below the city stretches, draped in white and aglow with lights from streets and windows. And any other day he’d relish in the opportunity of a quiet evening with his work, but there’s a restlessness in his veins that he can’t quite shake, and an impulsive response perched on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken.

A sigh over the line, then – _“Listen,”_ Varric says, and his voice lacks the derisive tinge Solas is used to hearing. _“I know things are shit right now. Hell, Cass isn’t doing much better, but she’s coming. Misery loves company and all that. Give the kid the night off and come add your own special brand to the general misery pool. What do you say?”_

Solas casts another sweeping glance over the empty loft. He’s already given Cole the night off, and although he could have easily told Varric something else, the thought of spending another night with only his thoughts for company seems suddenly unbearable.

And he can’t stop thinking about _her,_  red hair darkened by the rain and her woolly jumper, riddled with holes. The cold flush of her skin under his fingertips.

“Fine,” he relents, rubbing his eyes, as though to physically wipe away the image. “Nine, you said?”

_“I’ll have a glass of obnoxiously expensive wine waiting,”_ Varric laughs, before the line goes silent.

Solas takes a moment to stare at his phone, a strange desire taking hold. Her number is still in the pocket of his suit, and it would be so _easy_ –

He’s stuffing the phone back into his pocket before he’s even finished the thought. Beyond actually making the call, there’s the question of what he would say – if she would even welcome him calling her, after their last meeting. He’d left her there in the rain, soaked to the bone and with nothing but a hollow apology for his behaviour. And then there’s the matter of her clan, and the argument that had set her running.

He doesn’t have a mind for work, and so he sketches – trees, thick boughs and individual leaves, and curling vines that turn to curling hair, falling about slender, freckled shoulders. Grey eyes large and dark in a smiling face, and a nose scrunching up with laughter. Small, calloused fingers wrapped around a chisel, and that ugly, woolly jumper, pulled up to her elbows. He sketches until his hands are stained; spends an hour trying to remember the exact line of her jaw, before the chime of the clock on the wall draws him away, and the sight of her looking back from the paper leaves a clench of shame deep in his gut.

It’s still snowing when he exits the apartment complex a quarter to nine, the short trek to the pub made longer by wading through snow to his knees, and by the time he pushes through the door of the _Herald’s Rest_ both his shoes and the legs of his pants are thoroughly soaked, but Varric only laughs at the sight and pushes the promised glass of wine into his hand.

“Look at that, you made it! Misery and all.”

Solas doesn’t offer a verbal response, but lifts the glass to his lips, the wine a momentary relief, and when he takes a seat he breathes a little easier.

Cassandra considers him from over the rim of her own glass. “How have you been?”

It’s a question that asks more than its simplicity implies, Solas knows, but instead of answering he takes another sip of wine, and Cassandra doesn’t push. With both of them prone to introspection in the face of adversity, they haven’t talked much since the funeral, but Varric seems to be doing enough talking for the lot of them combined.

“It is good that you decided to come, Solas,” Leliana says, lifting her glass, before tossing a sidelong glance across the table. “Varric was beginning to worry.”

“Ha,” the dwarf barks, stealing a glance at his wristwatch. “This is what I get for trying to keep you all together? Mockery?”

“I am sure she did not mean it like that, Varric.” Ever the diplomat, Josephine is there to smooth any rumples, and unfurl the snags in the patchwork little group Varric has claimed his own. An odd assortment of people who would otherwise not come together like this, but it’s – not bad, Solas finds, even as he mostly observes from over the rim of his glass. It’s preferable to the loft, and that too-heavy silence that’s permeated the place since the funeral, dragging out the hours as he sits with idle hands and does nothing.

But an hour passes quickly here, between the laughter and the music blaring from the speakers in the corner, and it’s close to ten when Varric looks at his watch again, then at the door. And Solas casts a glance around the table, but they’re all present – even Cullen seems to have found time to join them, shoulders loose from his second pint, and he can’t imagine who else is coming.

“Your friend is late?” Cassandra asks, and Solas spares an idle thought of pity to whatever poor soul Varric has tried to charm into braving the snowstorm currently knocking against the walls and windows.

Varric’s brow is furrowed with something almost close to concern, but he’s quick to mask it with a smile. “She’s not the type to be, but this weather would slow down a Qunari on a rampage.” Lifting his phone from his pocket, he frowns at the screen. “No message. That’s not like her, either. She’s–” ****

The door is pushed open then, the howl of the wind from outside cutting through the pub’s chatter, before it slams shut behind a small shape, bundled up in a large, purple parka and an oversized scarf. ****

“There she is!” Varric exclaims with a laugh, despite the fact that Solas can’t pick out a single defining characteristic through the fur-rimmed hood and the wool scarf.

Then she’s pulling back her hood, revealing a tangled mass of russet hair and flushed, freckled cheeks, and Solas nearly drops his glass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bus stutters to a stop halfway across town.

“Sorry, folks. Looks like you’ll have to walk from here,” the driver sighs, surveying the road ahead with a despairing look. The unrelenting snowfall has left a foot of snow in its wake, and the bus won’t budge from where it’s parked, smack in the middle of the street. Behind it, cars are already lining up, and Ellana feels a pang of regret for even stepping out of her apartment.

Getting out of the bus, the cold knocks against her, but the fur-lined parka is a small blessing as she pulls the hood over her head and tugs her scarf up and over her nose.

“Fashion disaster,” she mutters, the words muffled by the scarf, remembering Dorian’s lamentations over the phone when she’d announced what she’d be wearing. But it’s not like Varric would care – or that Varric should have any kind of opinion on her dress sense, with his V-neck-in-any-weather policy. “At least I’m not freezing to death.”

Standing on the sidewalk with snow past her knees, she considers her options – going home, or proceeding to the _Herald’s Rest_ , but home is her cramped bedsit with its broken radiator and the bottom dregs of an old box of wine that’s going sour. If anything, the pub will be warmer.

_Onwards, then_. Her hands are shaking as she pulls up the map on her phone, cursing under her breath as she surveys the unfamiliar street names, before she sets off down the street, pushing through the snow with difficulty and regretting her decision a little more with every step.

Her phone dies somewhere between the impromptu bus stop and the part of town she knows the pub is in, and after some floundering and wrong turns she finally spots the hanging sign of the _Herald’s Rest_. And she’s breathing like a woman dying as she pushes through the door, sweat making her hair curl within her hood and fingers stiff from the cold, but, “There she is!” Varric exclaims, sounding honestly happy to see her, and for the span of a single heartbeat she feels like it might have been worth it.

Then she pushes her hood back, gets a good look at the people seated around the table in the corner, and regret hits her like a wall of cold. Along with a hefty dose of disbelief.

There’s a moment where she considers whether or not she’s dreaming.

“Shit, Dimples, did you _walk_ here?” Varric is laughing then, and she drags her eyes from Solas’ face – the expression that mirrors her own, and _Solas_ , she thinks, mind finally catching up with the rest of her.

“Ah, I – the bus,” she manages, realizing that they’re all looking at her curiously, that Solas is – “Yeah,” she says. “I…walked.” Then, shifting her eyes from Solas to Varric, and taking a moment to consider just how it looks and hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t think she’s shown up for _him_ – “And I could really use that drink.”

She’s barely had time to catch her breath, but then Varric is waving her closer and a blonde with a mop of unruly curls is pulling up a chair, and, “Curly is Cullen,” Varric says, then, to a beautiful woman with an eye-catching blouse, “That’s Ruffles.”

“Josephine,” she corrects with a patient smile. “It is nice to meet you.”

“Leliana,” the woman on her left greets, and Ellana shakes their hands with a polite, half-panicked smile, hoping they can’t tell how her own are shaking, or that if they do, they’ll think it’s because of the cold.

“Cassandra,” the stern-faced woman sitting on Varric’s side says, but there is kindness beneath the hard line of her smile, and Ellana hopes her own conceals the fact that she’s one second away from picking up her feet and taking her chances with the snowstorm.

She’s pointedly kept her gaze on anything but his face, but it’s unavoidable now as she turns towards where he sits on Cassandra’s right, a glass of wine held between his fingers. And he’s schooled his expression now, she sees, his honest surprise replaced with an unreadable mask.

“And this is Chuckles,” Varric introduces, and had he been anyone else – had they been different people, and this was their first meeting – Ellana would have found the nickname funny, paired with his deadpan expression.

But she’s seen him, features wrought with grief, his shaking fingers in her hair and _thank you for your consideration_ , and it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.

And then – “Solas,” he says, with a companionable detachment that makes her heart drop to her stomach. And there’s not a hint of recognition on his face when he looks at her now, as though they’re strangers – as though they never stood in the rain, or flirted across the counter at her shop.

As though he hasn’t been the only thing on her mind for the past month, and she ought to feel angry, she thinks, but, “Ellana,” she returns, gripping his hand, and plastering a smile on her face that she reserves for customers. As though he’s never been more than that.

And when his hand lets go of hers, not holding on so much as a second longer than necessary, it’s almost enough to make her believe it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One hour later, and they’re still pretending not to know each other.

It’s – she can’t decide if it’s _childish_ or something else entirely, the fact that they’re both avoiding eye contact. She’s sitting right beside him, their knees almost touching, and there’s something painfully absurd about the whole thing, being close enough to touch but unable to come up with a single thing to ask him, now that she finally has the chance.

No, that’s not entirely true. She knows exactly what she wants to ask, but she can’t find the courage to question just why he’s treating her like a stranger. Not in front of the others, anyway.

“Varric says you are an artist, Ellana?”

It’s Josephine who asks, kind eyes smiling – the sort of person who’ll go out of their way to make someone feel comfortable in a new group, Ellana decides, but faced with that kindness now she’d rather be ignored, than once again be at the centre of the table’s attention.

But, “Yeah, I do woodworking,” she says, trying for a smile. “I own a shop downtown – Straight off the Chopping Block, if you’ve heard of it?”

Cullen – army man, she’s deduced from his straight backed posture and pressed shirt – perks up at that. “I just had something ordered from there.”

That’s a surprise, and she has to stop herself from looking in Solas’ direction. “Ah, really?”

He nods, curls bouncing. “A chessboard. Cassandra recommended it.” He glances towards her. “You found it through that website you like?”

“Etsy,” Cassandra agrees, and Ellana steals a glance towards the woman in question, only to find her brows furrowed and her expression pensive, and – _she knows_ , the realization strikes. She knows that this isn’t their first meeting, and though she’s doing a poor job concealing that knowledge, she doesn’t voice her opinion on the matter.

For some reason, Ellana is strangely thankful for the fact.

“And are you from here?” Josephine asks, politely sidestepping the word ‘alienage’ by keeping her question vague.

And Solas isn’t looking at her, Ellana knows, but the words feel thick and awkward in her mouth, “No, I’m Dalish. I’m from the Free Marches, originally.”

If she finds anything suspicious about her blatant vagueness, Josephine masks her curiosity well. “And is your craft inspired by your heritage?”

Her mouth works, silently shaping words she can’t find. It’s been so long since she’s been around people who don’t already know what happened to her clan. And it’s never an easy thing to talk about, but – and the wry thought slithers in from somewhere dark – at least with Solas the awkwardness had been avoided by her all but spitting the words in his face.

“A lot of it is, yeah,” she says at length. “I don’t have _vallaslin_ , but I would have had June’s, if I’d had the chance. He’s our Master of the Craft.”

There’s a sudden tension around the table that makes her wonder if they’ve caught on – news from Dalish clans rarely reach the big cities, but the fate of clan Lavellan is one of the few stories that’s garnered public interest, so it wouldn’t surprise her if they were able to piece it together from her homeland and her missing markings.

“Solas is an artist,” the redhead with the clever smile, Leliana, says then, a skilful diversion that makes some of the tension unfurl.

“Oh, here we go,” Varric drawls. “What’s your opinion on book history, Dimples?”

Ellana blinks, surprised at the question, but – “Why you persist with this circular discussion escapes me, Varric,” Solas says before she can answer, the first whole sentence since she’d walked into the pub, and she’d forgotten how pleasant she’d found his voice.

“Chuckles prints books,” Varric explains. “On an honest to Andraste printing press. And then he illustrates them – it’s all very ‘everything was better before’ and the melancholy of the modern world. I’d call him a hipster, but’s he’s got his head so far up the past’s ass, I don’t even think he knows what a hipster is.” But he’s grinning even as he says it, and there’s nothing truly malicious behind the words, Ellana finds.

“You cannot deny that his work is exemplary, Varric,” Leliana remarks.

“Yeah, well, it’s all a little too archaic for my tastes. What do you think, Dimples?” Varric asks. “The past or the future?”

Her palms are clammy, and when she lifts her eyes it’s to find them all looking at her again, even Solas, and this time she doesn’t avert her gaze.

“I think there are traditions worth keeping,” she says, watching his face to gauge his reaction. “Even if those who try might be – misguided.” She swallows, and drops her gaze, feeling the release like a physical thing. “And some things are better off adapted for a new age. That does not devalue their worth, just because they are shadows of what they might have been, once.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything, and she feels suddenly embarrassed, having said far more than she’d planned, but crawling under the table probably won’t help matters.

Then, “An admirable sentiment,” Solas says, voice rough with some emotion she can’t place, and her heart skips a beat in her chest.

Another laden pause follows, and she’s gripping the stem of her glass like a lifeline, but she can’t make herself look at him now, because if she does Ellana is certain they’ll all know they’re more than strangers.

“How do you know Varric?” Cassandra asks then, and when Varric’s grin widens, the promise of a good story winking in his eyes, Ellana feels like she can breathe again.

Another hour crawls by with the weight of his presence beside her, their almost-touching knees and the massive, lurking druffalo in the room that the rest of the table seems happily unaware of. And she doesn’t know what’s got her more upset, the fact that he’s still pretending not to know her, or even worse, that she can’t stop thinking about her unkempt hair and that she should have gone with the pretty grey sweater, despite the cold.

The wine helps calm her nerves somewhat, and she’s tossed back her third glass when Varric pats her shoulder and announces he’ll get her another, before disappearing in the direction of the bar where Cassandra and Cullen are chatting with the barkeep. Across the table, Josephine and Leliana are engaged in a rapid discussion, Antivan and Orlesian bandied back and forth in a seamless interchangeability, and Ellana has long since given up on following the conversation.

Solas rises from his seat, and she keeps her eyes studiously trained on her glass, but then a hand touches the back of her neck, making her start. But before she can look up, the low murmur of his voice reaches her ears–

“A word?”

It sends a shiver skittering down her spine, but she isn’t given the chance to respond before the soft pressure disappears, and she lifts her eyes in time to see him slip around the corner towards the bathrooms.

She feels rooted to her seat, fingers clutching her now empty glass, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the alcohol or pure anticipation that’s rushing to her head, but when Varric sets her drink on the table before her she takes a hefty sip, before announcing with a voice a little too breathless for an efficient lie, that she needs to go to the bathroom.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, and she doesn’t dare glance back to see if they’re watching her go, unwilling to second guess herself now that she’s found the courage to do something other than stare into her glass like she might find her answers at the bottom.

Her heart is racing against her ribcage when she rounds the corner, to find Solas standing at the end of the corridor. Hands on his hips and shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, it’s the least composed she’s seen him, barring that day in the rain. And catching sight of her, Ellana thinks she ought to be relieved at the recognition now visible on his face, along with the regret, but the anger that had been swallowed by her surprise earlier now finds it an opportune time to come surging to the surface.

“Ellana–”

“You could have told them,” she hisses, making sure to keep her voice down, and it’s not the most dignified way of handling the situation, but she’s had three glasses of wine and _he has his shirtsleeves rolled up_ and she can’t stop staring at his forearms. “No one would have batted an eye if you’d just told them we’d already met, but instead you’re treating me like some stranger – like you’re embarrassed, and I can’t even figure out _why._ I mean it’s not like we slept–”

She clamps her mouth shut before she can finish the sentence, and she can feel her cheeks burning, aware that she’s well on her way to demonstrate just how chatty she gets when tipsy. And there are so many things she wants to tell him – so many things she wants to say she feels dizzy from the _need_ , but when she finally opens her mouth all she can get out is – “ _Why_?”

Solas turns away – paces towards the door to the men’s room, before he turns back, indecision sitting plainly in his tense shoulders, and she would have found the sight gratifying if she wasn’t so confused.

A sigh then, a desperately heavy thing that holds more than she can hope to decipher, but, “ _Ir abelas_ ,” he says, and it’s the first time she’s heard him speak elvhen, the familiar words startling in his voice, but – _fitting,_ too, like they were made for a cadence like his. “I – imagined it would be kinder.”

He’s not meeting her eyes now, as though ashamed of his reasoning, and Ellana blinks. Then – anger pushing back up her throat like vomit – “Kinder for _you_?” Kinder not to have to deal with her?

Solas looks up, mouth open as though he means to disagree, before he shuts it, and she’s about to speak again, because the anger makes her reckless, the alcohol makes her tongue loose, and the combination of the two promises a harshness that isn’t like her but she can’t _stop_ –

He touches his fingertips to her cheek, and she forgets everything she’d been about to say.

“You,” Solas begins, with a breath too sombre for a chuckle; his thumb sketching across her cheekbone. “Are on my mind. Constantly.”

She swallows thickly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The shake of his head suggest disagreement, but the look on his face makes her wonder if that isn’t exactly what he feels. And there’s a lingering grief in his eyes, but he’s not unfocused – not the way he had been, that night in the rain. Now he’s looking at her as though he sees her, as though she’s the only thing he sees, and he makes no effort to conceal his thoughts; to pretend that she isn’t who she is, and that he doesn’t feel what he does.

He hasn’t drawn his hand back, and his touch against her hair is almost too light to register, but she feels it, a jolt at the bottom of her spine. It’s an impulse that consumes her; that makes her hands shake, and before she can stop herself she’s reaching towards him.

The music from the bar seems far away – she can hear the others talking, Varric’s laughter loud and familiar, but Solas’ hand is curved around the back of her neck and she’s had three glasses of wine and all she can think about is kissing him. She feels the wall against her back, and the realization that she’s moved strikes her shortly after the feel of his skin against her palm as she curls her fingers around his forearm. And he’s warm and solid and there’s no rain and no funeral clothes, and she’s lightheaded under the weight of his gaze and the promise of his touch.

“I am not so sure it is a _good_ thing,” Solas says then, voice little more than a murmur, and she feels his breath against her lips, an almost-kiss that leaves her mouth dry.

Tilting her head, she hopes the invitation is clear enough; hopes he can’t tell just how desperate she feels, exposing her desire for him to kiss her so blatantly. And maybe she would be better off not being so damn _obvious_ – and there’s a voice at the back of her head that sounds suspiciously like Dorian’s, reminding her that nothing good ever comes from showing your hand too soon in the game – but it’s been so long since she’s been touched this way, and since someone looked at her like _that._ Like she’s something to be savoured, not devoured…

Footsteps across the old, hardwood floor, and they spring apart – Solas drops his hand like he’s been burned, and Ellana rams her elbow against the wall, but manages to wipe the pain off her face just in time to see Varric round the corner, a slight stumble to his step that tells her she’s not the only one who’s had a glass too many. But it’s a small relief, because he doesn’t seem to find anything amiss between them.

“Don’t tell me there’s a line?” he laughs, coming to a stop beside Solas.

Ellana roots around for an excuse, but can’t seem to think past the featherlight touch of his lips, but she’s saved from looking like a gaping idiot by Solas – “It seems I have kept you. I apologize.” Then to Varric, a bit ruefully, “I felt compelled to broach the topic of our earlier conversation.” He gives Ellana a quick, meaningful glance. “But she has proven a worthy adversary.”

Varric snorts, and gives Ellana a look. “Did you tell him where to shove his printing blocks?”

Thankfully, her laughter is real enough to hide the fact that she’s blushing through her clothes. “Not in those exact words,” she manages, but Varric only grins.

“See? I knew you’d give him a run for his money.” A pat to her shoulder as he walks past her, into the men’s room. “You should join us again some time; get a fresh viewpoint for him to agonize over. Might be good for him to think about something other than ‘authenticity’ and paper quality.”

The door swings shut behind him, his words ringing loudly in his wake, and then it’s just the two of them, and the dizzying near-kiss that makes her want to pull his head down and kiss him until her heart stops aching.

But whatever it had been, the moment is broken, and when Solas opens his mouth to speak, suddenly all she can think about it the rejection that sits like a promise in his eyes. And she can’t take it – she’s felt his skin under her fingertips, has seen the desire kindle in his gaze, and she can’t take the sorrowful look on his face now and listen to what will no doubt follow.

And so before he can speak she’s pushed past him, finding refuge between the dirty, cracked tiles of the ladies’ room, and with her heart in her throat and her back pressed against the door Ellana pretends she can’t still feel that tender touch against her neck, and how much she wanted to touch him in return.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t speak for the rest of the night.

No one mentions it, or makes any conscious effort to engage them both in conversation, and other than Cassandra’s occasional, stolen glances, they seem unaware that there is anything going on, and Ellana isn’t about to correct them.

Cabot keeps the place open an hour longer on Varric’s behest, and it’s well past midnight by the time Ellana is pulling on her parka again, and watching the others make their way down the street – Varric and Cassandra in a too-loud discussion on the merits of cliffhangers as plot devices, and Josephine and Leliana with their elbows linked, and looking far too sober for the amount of alcohol she’s watched them both toss back. Cullen retired an hour earlier along with the other patrons, as Ellana might have been wise to do, but it’s too late to regret her choices now.

And she’s made to many poor ones tonight alone to consider while sober.

It’s still snowing, although not as badly as when she’d first arrived, but there are thick flakes gathering in her hair, and the cold is quick in cutting through her jeans. And she wants nothing more than to go home to her bedsit and her broken radiator and forget everything about the night; to go about her life until he’s truly nothing more than a stranger.

Surveying the darkened street, she’s fishing her phone from her pocket – “Oh,  _crap_.”

She’d forgotten that it had died, which means she can’t call Bull or Dorian to pick her up, and if she tries to get back to her apartment without a map, chances are she’ll likely just get lost.

Someone brushes against her shoulder, and she looks up from her phone to find Solas standing beside her, hands buried in his coat pockets.

“Come,” he says simply, before he sets off down the street in the opposite direction of the others, towards where she knows his apartment is. He doesn’t look back – doesn’t call after her to hurry up, and something tells her he won’t repeat himself.

Weariness drums a restless rhythm along her skin, but remembering the look on his face, that earnest desire, the pang of longing in her chest is a far fiercer feeling.

She’s not ready to let him become a stranger yet.

And with her hands still gripping her phone, Ellana watches him go, four steps to cross the street to the sidewalk on the other side, and three more before she makes her decision to follow.


End file.
